


This is Our Design

by My_Soul_and_Perfume



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Deadpool - All Media Types, Hannibal (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Original Work, Supernatural, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Sex, Angst, Ballet, Bondage, Child Death, Contemporary Dance, Destiel - Freeform, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, F/M, Familiars, Fluff, Graphic Description, Great Depression, Haiku, Hannigram - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insecure Tony, Internalized Homophobia, Jealous Tony Stark, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Masturbation, Modern Dance, Mpreg, Poetry, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Power Dynamics, Rags to Riches, Relationship Issues, Rimming, Self-Bondage, Sick Character, Voyeurism, Wing Grooming, Writer chose not to use so many tags, annoying!Steve, courting, douchebag!Bucky, references of miscarriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-07-22 19:24:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 47,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7451119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Soul_and_Perfume/pseuds/My_Soul_and_Perfume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes a moment to absorb Damon’s touches; the hands between his legs; his tongue licking between chin and collarbone, leaving suck marks behind. If he pushes aside the ever-growing, lust-filled knot at the pit of his stomach, and retreats into the depths of his mind where a pinwheel spins in grassy fields—thunder clouds up ahead—tranquil swishing of water between his toes—two words come to mind: radioactive and bare. James’ desire lay in one place, yet everywhere in between, stripped to the bare minimum of cloth and exposed. In a sense, this liaison connecting wilderness and vulnerability could be interpreted as loneliness, if he were unaccompanied; yet another heartbeat rumbles in the distance and it pulses, shifting the clouds—spreading dandelion fluff—rocking the waves gently—skin to skin contact is more than James could ever ask for and all he’s ever wanted. Likewise, Damon is steadily intensifying the wilderness within and he is conclusively manifesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Court a Familiar Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short is dedicated to @whitebutler0099 who requested a male pregnancy theme. Please keep in mind that this is my first time writing such a prompt, and that I have no medical background whatsoever.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

"So you would like to stop taking your suppressants?"

 

James nods his head, an attempt at perfect posture to further encourage his doctor. He knows how to manipulate. He knows the play-by-play of how this works; fake the confidence, feel the confidence, project the confidence. It’s the only technique that has worked for him in the industry.

 

His pediatrician, Robin, pivots on her heel to look at him, nothing but curiosity and a professional interest wanting to shed light on this sudden request. "My I ask why?"

 

"You may." James nods. "I've been having sex. He wants a baby. I want a baby too."

 

She clicks her tongue. "Wow."

 

"Are you _shocked_ , Robin? I thought I told you my plans."

 

"Seven years ago. I mean, I knew your were sexually active but…you've been together how long?"

 

"One year."

 

"Wow," she says again, shaking her head. Her smile is nothing short of radiant, both rows of teeth blindingly white and blood red lips aiming high toward her cheekbones. Robin beams at her little brother. "Oh my God, I'm so happy for you James! Who's the lucky guy?"

 

"Damon. He's uh, he's my new Owner. Six-foot, so you know, five inches taller than me. He has a really cute nose like Tom Hiddleston. And he's pretty quiet too, patient…." he shrugs shyly.

 

"Sounds just like you, J. I'm sure you guys are going to be fine." She reawakens the desktop computer by waving a little black mouse situated on the wooden panel to her right. She briefly turns her attention toward the monitor to review James' medical history, including medication he may or may not be taking. Her brother takes the initiative to fill the silence, knowing that this is no better time than to fill her in since Glow. He stutters a few times here and there, his lips flapping uselessly more than once at a nervous attempt at talking. He talks about the courting process, how Damon made mini scrap books for each month they were together; every page has a picture taped to it, a description, and one poem. James has them displayed in the living room above the entertainment system.

 

Then of course, he absolutely _shivers_ as he remembers the petite intimacy stage they went through about two months into their courting; James had been in a sensitive state at the time and craved touch and recognition every few minutes. This is only because once a Familiar has gotten friendly with their Owner, a deeply rooted desire to get to know him/her is at its peak; staying away means possible sub-drop and separation anxiety, but staying close means 'home' and 'safety'.

 

And finally, there was the actual mating, which happened about one week ago, where Damon had to track James by scent and nothing but scent in the woods; since they were on old, family property, James was able to map his way through the woods and into one of the cabins with ease. He scented the trees with urine, imprinted false tracks in the snow, but even so, his Owner found him. At that moment, he knew, they both knew, that they were a Match.

 

"Damn, sounds like an awesome guy. I'd like to meet him sometime."

 

"You will."

 

She nods absently, "Right. Any who, back to sex; you want a baby. Awesome."

 

"So I'm good to go?"

 

"You didn't let me finish." James rolls his eyes playfully; he knows how much it irritates Robin to be interrupted. "J, you realize that the medication you're taking right now is…the cocktail is a very _high_ dosage. Now the birth control, I'm not worried about; that shi-stuff is the equivalent of a placebo so your body wouldn't have a problem getting used to the sudden withdrawal. But the heat suppressants are completely different. It's like taking an addict off crack. Your body is going to produce a few natural side affects."

 

"So? I can handle it, Robin, you know I have high pain tolerance." Another genotypic, Familiar trait.

 

"Even so, you're going to feel like shit James. The pill dosage is just over 45 milligrams; no normal Familiar wouldn't even be able to stomach it, no less have an easy time getting it out of their system. And whether you like it or not, you _are_ human. So what I'm going to do, is cut you and your partner some slack. Taking you off the suppressants could put you shock. But easing you out of it is the easier, less painful and conventional method of use that shouldn't leave your body too wrecked."

 

He bites his lip, forcing back the impatience-woven words that could probably frustrate his sister rather than have her compliant. James wants to be off the suppressants _now_ , not tomorrow, not next week, not next _month_. Robin doesn't understand how much he wants to have this baby with Damon. She doesn't understand the time limit ticking above his head, a foreshadowing reminder that the Glow will fade soon.

 

But, if he truly, sincerely knows Damon, James is less than certain that his Owner will leave him because of a slightly less than appealing Familiar incomparable to the first version.

 

Ugh, when did he become so desperate?

 

"Okay. Okay, fine. How soon can I start? How low will the dosages drop after every cycle?"

 

"About ten milligrams each." She smirks as he groans. "I'm doing you a favor Jamey. Normally, five milligrams is the ideal rate and that would stall your plans even longer. Ranking it up to ten cuts you down five extra cycles. So shut up, be grateful, and give me a kiss because I'm a very generous sister whom you love."

 

"I'll pass."

 

"Ouch. I'm going to complain about this. To Damon."

 

"Not gonna work. I already told him about you."

 

She turns toward him, full attention now, with a glare in those forest green eyes. James meets them with a not-so-serious glare of his own. "What did you tell him?" Her voice is strangely calm, though the omega can see the rising in her shoulders, the tiniest hint of fangs peeking from her lips. Feline Familiars have always be quick to tense.

 

To her annoyance, James laughs, sing-songing, " _No-thing_." He hops off the table, sweeps up his messenger's bag, and bolts out the door before she can pounce.

* * *

 

Despite the positive, if not playful note both Familiars ended on, James was still feeling a bit guilty as he left the doctor's office, but also disappointed that his sister didn't bother to chase him out the door. Robin can be a sensitive person and sometimes--although she tries not to show it--insecure of how people perceive her. She practically radiates beauty, talent, and wisdom in that colorful, sage brain of hers, but somebody staring at her a second too long can practically send Robin's mind to not-so-pleasant places. Just mentioning her to Damon without her knowledge was not only insensitive, but a breach of privacy also.

 

Eventually, when James returns the following afternoon to collect his new medication, he pays a quick stop to her office, feeling even guiltier than last night now that it's sat with him. He apologizes. The extra 30 minutes sitting outside her office waiting for the last patient to leave is worth the reassuring smile and hug. She even purrs into his chest too, so James knows that he didn't screw up too badly.

 

At last, all in good conscience, James departs feeling more content than ever and drives back home to his Owner with a pocket stuffed with pills.

* * *

 

 

The first month is worse than he thought it would be.

 

Aside from the expected dizziness, dry throat, and lack of appetite, James never expected to be…his sister never said anything about finding abstinence appealing.

 

At all.

 

Every time Damon attempts to start something, James takes it upon himself to finish it. Abruptly. Not only does this surprise his Owner the first time around, but the Familiar near soiled himself once his mind starting _thinking_ , of all things. _Is my interest in him lacking? Is the flame already dying?_

 

"I don't know what's wrong with me. I still love you, don't get me wrong but…I just don't want you to touch me. Intimately."

 

"Did I do something wrong?"

 

"What? No. No, you didn't….I called Robin and she said it's just a side effect. Sorry."

 

"At least it'll pass." Damon nods. "I'm worried about your weight though; your plates are coming back loaded with food rather than empty like they should be. Add this to the fact that your Type has sensitive feeding habits, and it's a perfect formula for weight loss. From now on, I want you to have a protein shake during every meal. Is that understood?"

 

The wolf nods, straddling his Owner to hug him tight. Damon raises his arms to reciprocate the embrace, but the contact just sets his skin on fire. He pushes them down with more than enough force and bites his lip to sooth the sudden nausea churning his stomach. James' body grows more rigid as it grows increasingly harder to swallow; Damon doesn't comment when he bolts to the master bathroom and drops to his knees, settling for standing by as his familiar heaves into the toilet. Touching him would only make the situation worse.

 

"Fuck." James pants; he hasn't felt this sick since forever ago back in fourth grade when that weird virus was going around. The cramping in his stomach is no less pleasant then he recalls it being. "Damon? I didn't scare you away, did I?"

 

"No." he replies, nearing closer as added assurance.

 

James flushes embarrassment. He flushes the toilet. "Sorry. That was gross."

 

"I've seen worse things."

 

"Right, you're a surgeon. Does that mean you're going to do my C-section?"

 

"They wouldn't allow it," He stands idly by James--not too close to send him back to the toilet, but close enough so that his scent is recognized. An appreciative sigh escapes the wolf's lips, his insides settling a miniscule amount. "Seeing as I'll probably be hysterical when you deliver."

 

James scoffs as he turns the faucet, clutching the edge for balance. "You? Hysterical?" He slides his toothbrush across his tongue.

 

"I'll put it this way: When I operate on my patients, they're unconscious--"

 

"I'll be unconscious too."

 

"But the baby won't." Damon insists. No matter how much he wants to be side by side with his Familiar, he can't just ignore the possible risks exposure could give. Prepping the nest will be safer. Plus, he'll have more time scenting their private room too, which means that James will feel more at ease when they wheel him in. It's already enough having strangers cut into him while he's unconscious; coming back to a room that doesn't smell like home would just distress him further.

 

They take their previous position atop the bed once James is finished with personal hygiene, though Damon knows better than to touch him now. Even with the lack of physical contact, just looking and scenting and _feeling_ is enough for both Owner and Familiar.

 

Staying close is enough, even if it's a bit different.

 


	2. To Court a Familiar Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still dedicated to @whitebutler0099

 

Two to three months into the future, James and Damon realize--capitulated--that symptoms of nausea, mood swings, spontaneous hunger pains, and headaches are sure to be an overture to an unavoidable fate during conception.

 (Of course, these are only a fraction of what James suffered through.)

 Winter green sheets, the same shade of His Owner's eyes, blessedly cool and soft; firm cushioning that mold with him like second skin; blankets of different textures and scents (his favorite material smelling of shaved pine fortifies a thinner sheet soaked in honey) ensuring an impenetrable, controlled environment that James indulges in to mitigate the worst of the worst every few days. Sleep is what he normally catches up on when he lay there, isolated and pressed, sulking through his misery and weak threats toward Robin for refusing to sedate him through the entire four months. She says it would risky, considering that his heat could literally happen at any time; if James happens to be in a coma during his heat, he and Damon could lose their opportunity at impregnation, inevitably further-stalling the clock.

 So he bestirs himself daily into cataloging just for the sake of saving his and his Owner's ass in the future. Migraines: inflicting too much sensory input at once. Mood swings: twisting and turning the words from Damon's mouth as they talk about preparations for a proper birthing ceremony, and worrying over the tiniest detail that could possibly lead to miscarriage then death. Nausea: being fed foods stemming from Damon's rich palate. No matter the time of day, no matter what sets him off and retreating back to bed, James can astute his knowledge in predicting what could happen in the future when he eventually becomes pregnant. Ultimately, his Owner buys him a journal for the sake of organization, and insists that he shares his observations to condense them into discernable patterns that they can both memorize.

Toward the end of the third month, well into November, the couple have an easier time navigating catastrophes, dodging the worst of the rockies, as if Daedalus succeeded in saving Icarus each time he got too close to the sun.

 As promised (and rightly earned) heavy commendation for their resolve shift like fluid membranes over James' and Damon's heart; you could say absurdism has reached an all-time high.

 He goes into heat mid-December, enclosed by Lake Nona's presence, snowflakes kissing the house meditatively; irises blown wide and bursting with every color of the rainbow, spine drawn just a little taller, and shallow breaths falling almost desperately as his body craves to lunge, bite, _take_.

 But James knows who the true dominant is.

 Damon stays a respectable distance away from the wolf, leaning against the doorframe of their master bedroom, giving each other time to ease comfortably adrift the atmosphere; being calm, scenting, making eye contact, foreplay that appears to be too simplistic outside of a premature birthing ceremony but in actuality, almost too intense to wade in for too long.

  _Oh the habits of my heart_

_I can't say no_

_It's ripping me apart_

_You get too close_

_You make it hard to let you go_

 Following a sharp intake of breath, Damon is tackling James to the ground, effortlessly pining his wrists above his head all the while keeping his heartrate steady. His Familiar needs to knows how easy, how _simple_ , taking him down is, and that he won't just roller over submissively.

 James whips his forehead to contact Damon's, a fruitless attempt at getting the man distracted and disoriented; he desires to place the Mark, to claim his Owner for himself, and trot all over the meat which would bear is prints. Damon is quick to dodge however, and releases one hand from James' wrists to force his forehead back down. The Familiar growls snappishly, obviously frustrated. Damon takes pleasure in squeezing his temples, his wrists, memorizes every shallow pant and prevaricated behavior that only fortifies his need to make James submit. The process will take time, but eventually, both will bear each other's mark--only Damon needs to assert his own first because he _always_ comes first in the bedroom.

 After five minutes of pining--and an intense staring game--the beautiful Familiar beneath his body starts to relax, the whites of his eyes giving way to a beautiful technicolor coat of iris and pupil. Once all is calm, cheeks and noses flushed pink, Damon takes a deep breath, beginning their oath:

 "Strip your flesh of cloth and skin,"

 "Feast of the flesh, we may begin."

"Lick my way down to the bone,"

 "Savor it clean, I know I'm owned."

 All at once, yet also unsynchronized, the Owner and Familiar take turns reciting each line, enunciating every syllable, emphasizes every word; a traditional oath recited during pre-birthing ceremonies, this is a steel web of permanent bonds which neither can escape. In other words, Damon and James officially belong to each other. They've endured the courting, earned one another's trust, have seen each other inside out and in between; all that's left is to mate and mark.

 He releases the wolf's wrists, tracing his fingertips down long, blue veins, inevitably landing between his shoulder and neck; James' heartbeat is a steady and even pace.

 Being below Him, yet retaining the same status of equality. Giving pleasure in a ricocheting manner. This is their way of showing each other that they are wanted; that their body is wanted; that their psych is wanted. And now, James is finally allowed to admire Damon--after four painfully long months. He finds himself so aroused and lust oriented, that just a simple strip tease is enough for sweat to come dripping down his back. Damon slowly rises from his mount and backs toward the bed, dropping an item of clothing every step.

 "Come to the bed and strip." He says.

 James rises gracefully and once seated on the king mattress, rolls through his spine as he lay down, adjacent to his Owner. Two by two, his abs are exposed slowly as his black tee rolls seductively toward the top of his chest. Although Damon had undressed in quicker motions, James wants to drag the foreplay on and on and on; ironic how impatient has was to go into heat, yet savors this event.

 Once the shirt has been stripped and tossed, Damon struggling to keep his breathing regulated, James skims his hands all the way down to the bulge in his pants. He bites his lip, moaning softly, as the button is popped, followed by a parting zipper, and previews the midnight black boxers housing his erection. James spreads his legs and Damon all but grips the sheets; the pants are dragged down slowly with a figurative eight of his hips. Finally, down to nothing but boxers, the Familiar awaits further instruction. It is not his place to touch what is no longer in his possession.

 "This is what lay beneath the veil.” Damon mutters to himself.

 With the slightest tone of insecurity creeping out, James says, “That was pretty vague. Am I not to your standards?”

 Damon shakes his head. He lay a palm on James’ stomach. “Your skin is warmer here.”

 “The baby. My body is preparing itself.”

 “Mm. I can’t wait to mark you. Nobody will touch you again.” As if to reimburse this statement, Damon skims the heel of his palms between James’ thighs, stroking the muscle over and over until they become warm and quivering. James is reminded of how much control Damon will have over this particular part of his anatomy, even more so in the bedroom, as he lay pinned and trapped beneath a body physically stronger than his. Even so, despite literally having the upper hand (or in this case, upper strength), James is sure he could turn this entire situation around if he wanted to; he could beg and manipulate Damon into giving him what he wanted with less than a sentence, could easily switch personalities to someone more feral and savage than his partner has ever seen. But James won’t. Because he likes it this way. Likes the game they’re playing right now. Damon hasn’t said a word in minutes, not very unusual, but with the way he migrates between the crease of his knee to the V of his cock, it’s obvious that he’s teasing, baiting.

 “I could lay here all day.” Damon comments.

James converges on the way his tongue curls as he speaks. They haven’t kissed each other yet. “I thought you said you couldn’t wait to mark me.” He exposes his throat tauntingly. “You seemed pretty eager.”

“So did you when you tried to tackle me.”

James shrugs. “I wasn’t in control of my wolf. My senses haven’t been this heightened since I hit puberty for the first time.”

“How do you feel?”

He takes a moment to absorb Damon’s touches; the hands between his legs; his tongue licking between chin and collarbone, leaving suck marks behind. If he pushes aside the ever-growing, lust-filled knot at the pit of his stomach, and retreats into the depths of his mind where a pinwheel spins in grassy fields—thunder clouds up ahead—tranquil swishing of water between his toes—two words come to mind: radioactive and bare. James’ desire lay in one place, yet everywhere in between, stripped to the bare minimum of cloth and exposed. In a sense, this liaison connecting wilderness and vulnerability could be interpreted as loneliness, if he were unaccompanied; yet another heartbeat rumbles in the distance and it pulses, shifting the clouds—spreading dandelion fluff—rocking the waves gently—skin to skin contact is more than James could ever ask for and all he’s ever wanted. Likewise, Damon is steadily intensifying the wilderness within and he is conclusively manifesting.

“Good. I want you.” He purrs. _Take the bait_.

“How do you want me?”

“Mm.” James can virtually picture Damon about a thousand ways and more. His cock down his throat. Fucking him into the mattress. Standing proud and tall overhead James while he kneels below him. He can almost feel the restraints that would tie his wrists together, leaving bruises as purple as the night sky.

There are too many options to choose from. “How do you want _me_?” James asks instead.

“Just the way you are. Should I be making the decisions?”

“If you want to.”

“You’re very desperate in bed.” Damon grins. He licks his way up James’ neck, pressing down on every pulse point, nipping at his jaw, before sucking earnestly at his lower lip. James can feel his heart creeping up his throat, exhilarated that this will be the moment his body is claimed, taken, _used_. “How are you holding up?” It takes Damon’s luring words and concerned gaze for him to realize how rapid his breathing is. He alternates between inhaling through his nose, out his mouth, and so on to ebb the adrenaline spike.

“I’m okay. Just excited.” If the erection tenting his boxers isn’t saying enough, maybe words will. “I’m desperate. Very desperate. Use me, fuck me. Please.”

“Goddamn. You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you? How long have you been thinking about this, James? You’ve had four, long months of fantasizing how this would go. What did you think about? Did you touch yourself?”

“N-no.”

“You were saving yourself for me.” James moans, long and longing, as his cock is squeezed. The fabric below the waistband is soaked in arousal. “You’re still saving yourself. That’s why you haven’t made a move, isn’t it? Only I get to touch this body.”

“Just you.” James pants. “Fuck. Please.”

"What do you want?"

" _You._ Just you."

"What do you _want_ , James?"

"Anything!"

"I make the decisions." Damon is really testing the waters right now, marveling at the way James humps his palm and clutches the sheets.

"Yes." And James is all but begging at this point, practically pleading; the game is a tie. "Just--" He swallows back a keen and exhales shakily.

"Stay here."

"You're asking me to be patient?" A fevered zeal. Mint bleeding through palms. Forest green eyes gazing back at the beast.

"No." Damon opposes. "I'm telling you to."

* * *

 

  **D** **ecember 25, 2016**

 

James rouses to the sound of murmuring voices outside his bedroom door. The sheets are twisted--soft and wilted from stretching the fabric religiously-- around his torso and smell pungently of pine, mint, and honey. Weak strokes of light filter in and out of consciousness, Zeus’s never ending mood swings playing with the clouds nonstop. In the window, droplets of condensation stretch thinly, translucent, in a single coating of frost and sparkle like atom sized shards of glass across the maple floors. Today is a new dawn, graced with winter’s presence, and James has many gifts to give.

He is a child again on Christmas day and waiting for his parent’s contagious smiles (mom had the brightest) to scoop him up in a cradle before eating breakfast beneath early morning stars. Firmer, less callous hands cradle his cheek instead, and James opens his eyes mid-smile to find that Mom and Dad have become Robin and Damon. Everyone is, for the first time, celebrating Christmas together as newly-wed and in-law.

James is satisfyingly shocked awake. Damon continues to cradle his cheek, carding through tangled strands of hair. His sister seats herself at the foot of the bed.

"Morning." Damon greets.

"Morning. You smell like bacon. Did you cook?"

"I did, actually." Robin intervenes. “Everything is packed up and ready to go.”

“You found the spot?”

She only smiles. “Merry Christmas.”

Once James is up and out of bed—with the help of his spouse--a thin grey cardigan and navy blue, cotton sweat pants are pulled snugly over his round belly, and swollen ankles pulled in hunting boots. Robin meets them in her car with everything packed into the trunk; blankets, thermos, suitcases, groceries, and crisply wrapped presents. James allows himself to be tucked in the back seat by Damon and lay his head on a pillow he obtained from the bedroom. The drive will be long, about four hours, but once they get to their destination the Familiar is sure to be pulsing with energy.

* * *

 

The cabin is exactly how they left it. Not the one James and Damon used for the mating ritual, but an older, more private domain placed on the edge of the woods not far from the family’s main residence. This cabin, _Mom and Dad’s_ cabin, lay in the sun’s line of sight from dusk till dawn, smells of cedar wood, and has creaky old floor boards nailed haphazardly through tree stump pillars.

Robin holds his hand as they pass through the living room, presently cleaned of any residual dust on the furniture, comfortably making themselves at home as if they departed for a quick trip to the store. Damon maneuvers the car underneath a deciduous tree, still bizarrely possessive of its leaves despite being in the throes of winter. He unloads the trunk too, since Robin packed, and gives a questioning glance since putting them anywhere strikes him as intrusive, not to mention rude. _James has mentioned this cabin before_ , he recalls. _Several months back when we pre-mated; it was dusty and infested with vines._

“I’ll show you. Robin, could you heat up the food please?”

She stares at him incredulously, eyebrows furrowed and right shoulder favoring the slight tilt of her head.

“What?” James inquires.

“Where the _fuck_ did those manners come from? Since when do you say please?!”

“I’ve always had manners.”

“Liar.” She sings.

“You’re just jealous that I’m nicer to Damon than you.” The tides rock in warning, licking at his ankles. James’ world fades a paler shade than it once was, thunder clouds a misty grey, the pinwheel in the grass nicking at the edges. His heart is chewed delicately by Regret and Guilt; he reopens his mouth to apologize, but Robin rebuttals teasingly:

“You’re just trying to be polite so that you’ll get it good in the bedroom tonight.” Once upon a time, this girl would have burst into tears at the slightest mention of being loved less; Mom and Dad’s death have strengthened Robin in their own way, James supposes.

 _Actually,_ James muses, _having sex is out of the question._ One month prior, when James found that it was getting harder and harder to keep his hands to himself, throat as dry as the desert and back weary with stress, the Familiar attempted to woo Damon into having sex with him; turns out, he wasn’t the only one that felt horny as fuck, because as soon as James started peppering suggestive kisses along his Owner’s throat and jaw, getting his Familiar sprawled on the mattress with his legs spread seemed like the most logical action to Damon. Both of them were on the edge too--kissing, sucking, biting, touching—thinking, “One last fuck before the baby is born.”

James’ goddamn baby bump prevented Damon from penetrating him like he wanted to.

Getting on his hands and knees would just strain his back and settling for a hand job was just plain unsatisfactory; so sex would have to wait until after the birthing ceremony.

James rolls his eyes, drawing no hurt from her body language and braces his palms on the neck of the chair to rise. (He swears he hears the floor crack beneath him.)

“Don’t break the house.” Robin snickers.

Despite his best effort to look annoyed, James can’t control the broad grin from stretching his lips. Damon also, though he can see the tell-tale signs of laughter pummeling his chest. “You guys are assholes. Is it really that fun to make fun of pregnant people? Nope! Don’t answer that! Come on babe.”

Damon heaves the duffel bags-- his, James’, and Robin’s—over his shoulder with ease. Just as his Familiar leads him by the elbow, about to turn the corner, Robin speaks up. “Oh wait! Leave the gifts there, by the fireplace.”

An abused, draw-string sack stuffed silly with gift boxes, cradled and sticking into Damon’s ribs, is set politely by a bundle of firewood just as requested. Most of the presents are for James and the (giant peach) baby, about two fourths or so; another two quarters belong to Damon and Robin, half wrapped in cherry blossom paper, another in lumberjack flannel.

                                                                                                                                                      

* * *

 

_They were stuck in a twilight zone between nightfall and dawn, awake, aware, and snapping twigs beneath their feet._

_“It’s up ahead.” Their father said. He squeezed the hand of James warmly, who passed the gesture to Robin, who delivered it to his wife, anticipation pumping surplus energy in the hearts of their children; they quickened the pace impatiently. Robin stayed close to her little brother, her chestnut hair styled in a French braid, hunting boots and overalls for wear; as the big sister, she was responsible for James, whose feet were too small for climbing and brain too small for quick thinking. Mom and Dad were counting on her; their Glow was fading and the family had little time left for bonding._

_Up ahead, just past a densely packed clump of trees, lay striking orange bleeding into the water, an unfrozen lake, and abnormally clear skies freckled of stars. Robin called it Composite Lake. She came upon the spot while scavenging in the forest and thought it would be the perfect gift to give to James. He might not have been able to appreciate the view until a later age, but the boy would surely remember it for years to come._

_Luna rocked to and fro as Dad hauled the supplies on board and started the engine; with no wind to sail with, Luna had to depend on fuel and the water’s current. Robin took a seat on the deck next to her mother on a picnic blanket, maneuvering James onto her lap; he let her without a fuss. But then his stomach grumbled._

_“Can we eat?” asked Robin._

_Dad was still tending to the boat, securing the sails, getting acquainted with the wheel, lifting the anchor. If he was tired, he didn’t show it and worked his forearms as needed; Robin wondered how he knew what to do._

_“Let’s wait for Daddy. But you can help me spread out the food. James, baby, come here. Robin, get the bag please.”_

_“Okay.”_

_She stumbled on her feet once or twice trying to find her grounding as Luna rocked back and forth from Dad’s relentless jeering. The duffel bag lay just within her reach, but slid from slide to slide, feinting left when she stepped right. Eventually, Robin got frustrated and decided to pounce; James laughed at her flustered face, red in embarrassment and frustration. She stuck her tongue out and tossed the bag onto the quilt-_

_And pounced on it once again when it slid toward the edge._

_“The anchor’s stuck between some rocks. I don’t think we’ll be able to move.” Said Dad, peeling off his gloves and tucking them into his pants pocket. The edge of his hairline was dripping with sweat and his muscles bulged beneath his skin tight tee shirt. James, who sensed trouble, started crying._

_“Oh no, James. It’s okay. We can still see the stars. See?” soothed Robin. She slid him back into her lap and curled up comfortably with her knees tucked beneath James’ and both arms encircling the boy. She pulled the fringes from his eyes and tilted his chin to look at the endless galaxy of stars and planets, black, blue, and purple swirling together. As she pointed and narrated to him the multitude of constellations and planets, their parents set to work on unpacking breakfast; fruit salad (apples, oranges, grapes), untoasted cinnamon bagels and strawberry cream cheese, homemade peanut butter bars, and peach tea._

_Mom’s beautiful cherry blossom dress folded around her legs modestly. She slid next to her husband, tired but awake, and listened to her children conversing. Dad held her hand unconsciously._

_“I think they’ll be okay without us.” He reflected._

_“You think so?”_

_“Yeah. I think that, if we die right now…Robin and James would be just fine.”_

_Mom nodded, indecisive between smiling and frowning. Yes, Robin was a natural mother, yes, James had a big heart, but once the Glow faded nobody would be able to guide them anymore; Mom’s Familiar spirit would take its last breath and die along-side her Owner’s soul. This is inevitable._

_Abruptly, she strayed from those morbid thoughts, and called to her children. “It’s time to eat!”_

                                                                                                                                              

* * *

 

“James? James!”

He starts, snapping his head toward Robin, yet still facing Damon, and hums questioningly. His head feels fuzzy, like it was stuffed with cotton, and it takes him a while to realize that he holds a picture—

Mom and Dad. Grinning, golden hair lit up by the sun, standing front to front, palms interlaced and hovering between their shoulders. Engulfed by tunnel vision, the two of them look stranded, and wading in an ocean of ink, but a melodic sense of ease and intimacy—growing and overflowing—stick to the clothes on their back like a border. James’ heart stutters warmly—the same cherry blossom dress levitates, revealing the back of Her knees—red and black flannel, course and fuzzy and warm, stretch over His bulging biceps.

So a day in the wilderness, then. Here, in the forest?

He takes a deep breath, shoulders relaxed and expression content. He smiles. “I think I just…” thumbs the photograph absently, looks into Mom’s peacock-blue eyes, “, had a flashback. Or one of your memories, maybe one of theirs.”

Robin rises from her seat at the kitchen table, looking wholly intrigued. James can feel Damon staring at him, but not of concern. Not of interest. Sadness, perhaps?

“What’d you see?” she asks. James rolls his lips and shrugs. He waddles to the couch, sighing in relief on behalf of his ankles as he sinks into the cushions . How long had he been standing for?

“It was…. Remember Luna?”

Robin smiles nostalgically. She seats herself to his left, Damon flanking right. “The boat we rented out, yeah. For that one time... James, you remember that? You were five when it happened, and that’s the only time we went. How….” She stares at him, appalled.

Damon slides in close by James, dragging pine and mint with him. He connects their temples, nuzzling into his frizzy curls, and rubs at his swelled belly with tender care. When he speaks, his voice is soft, a toe-curling rumble, sounding almost doting. “I’ve heard stories where decedents of family lineages have flashbacks that aren’t their own. Some…phenomenon that only happens with Familiars.”

“Why?” James asks. Robin bites her lip and raises her hand tentatively, wordlessly requesting the photo. James passes it over.

Damon shrugs. “Phenomena aren’t meant to be explained, merely experienced.”

“Is that your philosophical opinion?” James grins.

“Maybe. What was your memory about?”

“Mom, Dad, and Robin were taking me to a lake. Composite lake, that’s what she called it.”

“Who?”

“Me.” Robin answers. Her bottom lip is trembling and the faintest of red envy swells her cheeks. The younger Familiar realizes, sympathetically, that she has no Owner. And yet here James and Damon are, flaunting mindless gestures of affection—their unborn child—

Thunder clouds growl in the back of James’ head, sending hailstones aplomb the ocean in rage. He retrieves one from the shallows, finding it strangely dry; it reads:

_Fire._

* * *

 

  _They burned Luna._

_It would carry their bodies down the lake, sinking into oblivion, into midnight, into ashes. Nothing in their possession would be left behind, including the boat, but Robin and James and the cabin would live. This tradition, the burning of a Match, is a send-off to a place far from the world, from Earth._

_They felt the Glow abandon their bodies in steady increments at last. Mom and Dad spared any goodbyes and charred, hand in hand._

_Composite Lake was the gate to Heaven._

* * *

 

 “That sounds beautiful. Is it still around?”

Damon’s voice fades in, like Brahms’s Hungarian Dance reaching crescendo. Sudden, blinding, warm, exposed, the smooth angles of Damon’s face are lit up by the sun. Angelic and innocent. A knight in shining armor shielding him from the worst of the glares with his own body. A natural and unconscious need to protect what is treasured without expecting repayment. Damon is, truly is, James’ Owner. He leans in to kiss him spontaneously, a chilly imprint on his cheek; the other shivers, sending literal vibrations all the way through James, from his toes to his knees, traveling up his spine, to impact his belly. The baby kicks in response and they simultaneously freeze.

“The baby…kicked.” Damon swallows. Robin pauses mid-sentence, shifting from confusion to understanding to a dawning comprehension that expands her lips into an ‘O’. The older Familiar is up and out of her seat within seconds, striding purposely to the fireplace and back, bearing five rectangular boxes in her arms.

Her command is not a request, nor shall it be ignored. “Gifts. Now. Open them.”

“Okay.” James trembles. Still a comfortable, almost suffocating weight beside him, Damon polishes his belly in circles, looking more pleased than ever.

 

* * *

 

**_Day: Unknown_ **

****

James finds himself…somewhere. Firm cushioning molds to the knobby vertebrae in his spine, and his arched feet dangle, relaxed, blood roaring through his toes to offer a mere helping of heat. Face, neck, chest, and legs all bared to the echoless void of Somewhere, his muscles quivering instinctually to the ice cold air; it is only then, during a nasty, shivery quake that James realizes he is wearing clothes. Thin clothing, that does nothing to ease his numbing limbs. The Familiar opens his eyes and faces Somewhere in total darkness, technicolor eyes darting nervously back and forth, back and forth.

_“…so…healthy?”_

_“Always give him…not…. Clean…and…information books.”_

_“Great. Thank you.”_

_“Not…. Good luck.”_

James comes to an eight count of silence before something at the end of his horizontal location clicks, a high pitched squeak following with a dull thudding of rubber soles. With no memory prior to his current position, James tries his best to bypass the endless circles reigning hellfire through his head. Just to see what would happen, he calls out:

“Damon.” A dying whistle.

He waits.

“Robin.” Dry sandpaper.

He waits.

“…Lexi?”

And all at once, yet simultaneously, a gradual buildup of light of life of laughter, James resurfaces into the real world pinned down by heavy hospital sheets and beeping monitors. He inhales, wincing at the irritating stretch in his abdomen, and cracks his eyes open.

“James?” Damon gasps.

_“Breathe babe. Breath with me.”_

_“Damon—“James pants. “Shut the Hell up.” He squeezes the other’s hand through a voiceless groan, clenching his teeth in agony. Two nurses wheel him calmly through double doors, feinting professionalism, though the Familiar can see tell-tale amusement in their eyes. Since the couple came stumbling through the doors of Power Care Hospital, almost every patient and staff felt their day brighten inevitably at the spontaneous labor-burdened omega being carried in by his alpha in shining armor. Doctor Damon—everyone acknowledged. And as always, he executed practiced routine smoothly, signing papers at the front desk, keeping his Match calm, while simultaneously making preparations for their nest in the hospital, post-surgery._

_“Doctor Blanche will be operating on him.” Informed one nurse as she and one other wheeled the omega through a no-patient zone. Damon nodded his head approvingly; the lady in mention, as observed through his years of practice and working with his colleague, is capable of leaving little to no scarring on those admitted to her care. James will be happy in more ways than one when he wakes later._

_With nothing left to say, both leading betas plus surgeon maneuver the Familiar safely into the surgeon’s room, gently setting him on the operating table. Damon strokes his hair soothingly, talking James through everything as they disrobe him of clothing to replace them with a traditional hospital gown. No less than two minutes later, Doctor Blanche strolls in, prepped and washed. She smiles at her colleague in acknowledgement._

_“James.” She begins. “I want you to take deep breaths for me, deep breaths. We’re going to being your C- section now. My name is Doctor Blanche. Is there anything you want to say before we begin?”_

_In a moment of vulnerability, the Familiar blinks away tears, licks his chap lips, whimpers, and says, “I love you.” Damon kisses his forehead in response._

_“I love you too.” He stands aside as one nurse approaches with the spinal anesthetic. “Okay, we’re going to begin now, babe. I’ll be on the other side watching. I’ll be here when you wake up.”_

* * *

 

 

**Unknown Date**

“Robin is watching her the whole day?”

“Yep.”

“So…” the young Familiar twiddles his thumbs nervously, “What do we do?”

Damon only sighs, “Well. It’s Saturday, the weather’s beautiful, it’s quiet. Maybe too quiet….”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I think we should make some noise.”

James, lightheaded and easily persuaded by the influence of red wine, sets down his glass and scoots the dining chair back to face Damon. Indeed, today is definitely beautiful.

He wonders if Robin took Lexi to the playground before snapping back into focus and picks up the suggestive growl in his husband’s tone.

Licking his lips then biting one softly, the Familiar slides his palms down his knees. “Oh.” He breathes.

Damon sets down the cutlery used to tear at his steak. “Mm. The lighting is perfect right here, in fact. Wouldn’t you like to take a picture James? Could you imagine placing my body across the table, naked and exposed to the sun’s harsh glare?” He palms his cock softly. “…Or would you rather I did it for you?”

“Someone would see it.” Neither confirming nor denying a fantasy where either one is vulnerable, James fruitlessly tries to counter Damon’s judgement with common sense; the company checks his camera daily.

“Copy the photo and delete it, then—“

“And then what? Buy a picture frame?”

“You would sit on our nightstand every day James. You would see yourself how I see you.”

They’ve migrated to their feet now, face to face and erections bumping together. It comes with plenty of hesitance, but James agrees to his Owner’s prompting and shuffles to the bedroom to retrieve his camera, returning without a shirt or pants. Damon strips to match and clears the table so they have space to move. His heart is pumping so forcefully; he is convinced he’s on the verge of a heart attack.

Before he can pour it down the sink, James steals the wine glass from Damon’s hand and downs the rest in one go. Liquid courage, he chants.

“How do you want me?”

“Put one hand on the chair, another on the table.”

“Like this?” James chirps.

“Yeah. Now twist your torso a bit so the light falls across your back. God, that’s beautiful.” Damon takes the first shot cleanly, impressed by the quality and stability of the camera. Even Lexi could take a picture and it would still come out victorious.

“Okay…how about—turn around, sit on the table. Spread your legs.”

“W-what? But— “

“Turn around.”

Blood rushes so fast to his cock that James is left dizzy, swaying momentarily and even dizzier when it extends, flushed red and dripping. This whole situation is amazing really, how he gave his consent to being photographed, but forced to expose himself in such shameful ways. Now Damon is asking, no, _telling_ , him to sit on the table they eat on and spread his legs?

It’s…dirty.

 _Oh. Fuck._ Endless dribbles of pre ejaculate drip down James’ cock as he shifts positions and plants his ass on the mahogany. Damon’s finger slips accidentally and a photo is snapped, at the exact same moment that James cups his balls to keep arousal from staining the table. The picture comes out how one would expect; explicit and toe curling. Scalding heat pushes Damon to far thinner patience than he started out with, and all of a sudden he’s barking commands every second, displaying James like the beautiful piece of art he is. Ten more pictures are taken before both parties find themselves tongue fucking, almost all teeth, one grabbing the other’s erection while the other moans as his nipples are pinched and teased.

Damon swiftly turns his husband around before dropping to his knees and licking at the puckering pink hole passionately. James’ nails scratch on the wood and suddenly there’s nothing for him to grab at, leading his knees to buckle and nearly nit the floor. Damon grabs his hips before it happens.

“ _Fuck_.” He’s so wet, wet _everywhere_ and getting the table dirty, making a mess. He’s fucking the hand gripped tight around him and moaning so loud, filling the house with noise just like Damon wanted; James is on the brink of ecstasy, only his Owner pulls away just in time. He gets manhandled all the way atop the table, legs spread invitingly, on his back, erect and leaking, flushed red from the wine and cloaked by golden beams. Damon takes one last photo now that he has his Familiar relaxed and loosened and so, so vulnerable. No more time is wasted as he finally sinks into James’ tight ass, which draws out a long growl from both of them.

James rocks against his cock impatiently and Damon swears, out of breath. He bends down to lap at his nipples.

“Jesus fuck, Damon. Harder.”

The table rocks unsteadily. Damon hauls James’ knees over his shoulders, enhancing the angle and penetrating deeper than before; sparks, electricity, crackling heat engulfs the younger male and for a few seconds he totally blanks, unaware of his husband groaning excitedly as he tightens unconsciously around his length.

“God, James. I’m gonna—“

“Don’t you dare!” he growls.

Somehow, the Familiar gets Damon up and onto the table below him, on his back so their positions are reversed; his Owner can only moan confusedly, what with his muscles shivering uselessly at his sides. James pins his wrists down, bites down at soft, quivering flesh, and impales himself on Damon’s cock. He sets a steady pace immediately until the first orgasm rips through Damon in an unexpected storm; his head thuds against the table one, twice. But, oh no, they didn’t come together.

“Babe. Sit on my face.”

“Fuck yes!” Damon’s cock falls with a wet smack, James’ ass finding new entertainment elsewhere. His cock twitches sporadically, met with toe curling pleasure as Damon progresses from gentle laps of his tongue, to rough, courser strokes as he shifts from moist stimuli to rough taste buds. He flicks his tongue past the tight ring of muscle, then nips at the rim; James’ jolts in surprise and moans, deeper and more desperate.

Finally, he’s climaxing too, and come shoots all the way across their chests, some landing on his cheek, and the Familiar is pounding the dining table with his palm, spitting curses.

****

* * *

 

**_Day: unknown_ **

**_Post birth_ **

Her Familiar is yet to be determined.

_Lexi, our beautiful baby. Who will you grow up to be?_

Fair skin, ginger, hazel eyes and technicolor pupils. She was born at six and a half pounds, albeit slightly under the average baby weight, but still kicking in quite the literal sense. Damon and James observed how Lexi prefers displaying physical response rather than verbal communication; a quiet baby who enjoyed aunty Robin’s outrageous tales of her profession when she came to visit. Her eyes would grow larger and larger, until technicolor overrode the greenish brown hue, and smiled (always smiled). As for the Match, Damon and James polish the finishing touches on her room, watercolor walls and pale pink crib.

Eventually, as his maternity leave officially ends, James returns to work at the photography industry, Shutter, and continues to edit photos for artists all over the world.

On his desk from last Christmas is a new camera, given and purchased by his older sister Robin; digital, black, light, not overly complicated, and loaded with memory. If one were to scroll through his personal gallery, pictures of an Owner bathed in golden rays smiling charmingly, cradling nature’s newest would scroll by from left to right, like a favorite song set on repeat. Lexi officially turned one-year-old that day, all smiles from the minute she woke to the moonlight’s graceful kiss at night. As for Damon, he handled the baby with care in his nimble surgeon hands and kissed her rosy pink cheeks.

A photo of all three of them sits at the very end; James had to ask a pedestrian, who in the end, was happy to oblige. Thus, the family stood, positively glowing, between the ocean’s current and windswept grass. Lexi Gyn, Damon Gyn, and James Gyn smiled beneath the sun.

 

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first male pregnancy story! How did I do?


	3. To Court a Familiar Part 1

 

Time slowed down for me. The wind kissed my skin, wrapping its feather tail around my hand to pull me forward, on the edge of the curb.

She is just within reach! If I can just grab her hand-

A large beast pulls me back, I slam into its chest. Like a feral wild cat, I scratch and claw and scream madly. All I can see is a tunnel vision outlined in black moths, leading a trail all the way to Alsy, who is without guidance and just as curious as ever.

She stops, wondering where I have gone, her eyes growing as big as saucers because she never saw it coming.

All I see is red.

All I hear are screams.

And then, time speeds up.

"Call 911!" I scream, finally breaking free of Ress' grasp. I trip over my laces trying to get to her, a large lump plugged in my chest making it hard to breathe. All the cars have stopped now, a large barricade forming behind me. People talk hurriedly on their phones, some snapping pictures and others racing toward me to help.

I snarl at anyone who tries to touch Alsy, keeping her blood soaked body in my arms. Maybe she is still conscious. Maybe I can wake her up!

But as I turn her little body around, a defeated whine escapes my lips.

Her head is bashed in, a large dent to the right of her head. Blood is spurting out profusely through every opening of her body, the neck twisted horribly and her spine limp.

Ress gasps next to me; he takes Alsy from my arms and sets her down gently, as though she were still alive and he was tucking her in bed. Suddenly all there is, is darkness and something warm over my eyes; I can't see anything.

"Babe don't look. Don't look at her." Ress says.

But see, she has already burned images into my head.

* * *

 

We enter the apartment, a hollow grey room greeting us. Ress sets his keys on the glass table by the door, jingling like Christmas bells. My eyes scan the apartment, covering every inch of carpet; books, crayons, and dolls litter the floor from our earlier tea party. Her mini table still seats Mr. Bear and Sparkles the unicorn, each plushy nursing a plastic cup of tea.

I walk over to the table and sit on a chair. With blank eyes, my vision lands on Mr. Bear. He stares at me, judging. It makes me angry, so I throw him across the living room.

"Layson!" Ress calls. I pant heavily, just tired all of a sudden. All I wanted was to go to the park today, with Alsy and Ress. We were supposed to have a family day since I've been busy with work! But now....

Ress catches me as I collapse to my knees, quaking with shivers and sobs. My chest and head hurts, an unbearable pain pressuring my eyes and lungs. I sniffle into his shoulder. My body feels too weak to return Ress' hug but I can feel that he's okay with that. He's always been so patient with me, always so accepting to the horrors of the world. He is the reason why I have chosen him as my partner, why I have trusted him with taking care of her. Why I have married him. "I know you're hurting right now, Lay. Just let it out." Ress shivers; I can feel his tears in my shirt and I know he is grieving just as much as I am and that scares me. Ress has always been my savior, the one I can lean on. Now I feel guilty for taking him for granted all these years.

"I'm sorry." I sob. For many things too. For not watching Alsy like I should have, for taking advantage of his kindness. Everything just comes back up like word vomit as I apologize over and over again for how I have sinned. My hands find themselves wrapped around Ress' chest eventually, because I want to return the comfort. He squeezes me tighter now, sticking to me like second skin.

"I love you so much baby. Don't apologize, it wasn't your fault. We didn't know-" Ress cries. His chest hiccups against mine, our broken hearts syncing together.

Was it God? Was this God's work? Should I blame him for this? Or should I blame the man who hit her in the first place and didn't even stop to check on her?

I'll just blame whoever is the most convenient.

Me.

Without warning, Ress picks me up from the floor. I cling to him like a koala bear, silent and sniffling. The crying has stopped for now, but I know that Sorrow will come back later.

Soft, lavender scented sheets cushion against my back as I'm lowered onto the bed. Ress tells me to relax, he'll take care of me. But my muscles are knotted so furiously together that I find relaxing an impossible task.

"Lay on your stomach babe." He coos. Ress wipes his face and nose with a tissue. He goes into our master bath quietly and I hear the cabinets opening then shutting. By the time he returns, I'm on my stomach as requested, head turned to the left to avoid looking at our family photo. Ress exhales and climbs on the mattress on his knees.

I sigh as he lifts my shirt over my shoulders and head, warm oil being massaged into my back. We spend some time like that, Ress straddling my waist and I melting into the sheets; I can't stand the silence so I speak.

"I want her back." I whisper. My eyes droop every few seconds, sleep trying to take me under. Every time I close my eyes, Alsy's dead body burns my vision.

"I know. But wherever she is right now, she's happy." Ress digs into my shoulders; I wince every time he runs over a hard knot.

"How do you know?" My nose is burning again, I can feel tears stinging the white of my eyes.

"Because we gave her one last good memory today. Alsy was a good kid, she deserves to be happy on her way to Heaven. Not to mention her tea parties were the best. She should share them with other people." Ress gives a watery laugh. "And I know you might not believe in Heaven, but let's send her our faith anyway to send her to a beautiful second home."

I nob my head jerkily. I sniffle and hiccup beneath his fingers. Ress lifts himself from my waist and lay beside me. His green eyes are glazed over with fallen tears, his cheeks stained with a furious red and nose a pinkish color. I scoot closer to his body, and he wraps his large arms around my chest. Ress strokes my unruly black hair; the gel has thinned out and now every strand of hair lay wilted over my eyes. "My chest hurts." I whimper. Immediately, Ress places his palm over my sternum. He massages the area in slow circles.

"Layson?" He calls.

"Hm?" I croak.

"We're gonna be okay. I'll take care of you, I promise."

All I can do is nod.

**End**


	4. Apollo's Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is dedicated to novelsandcoffee who wanted some romance. This is actually another one of my old works that I will be adding on to because, you know, why not? Right? But anywho, romance to me is never always about being with the one you love. Romance involves intimacy, which will always be different depending on the person. In this case, my background of the arts romanticises my appreciation and love for them because I have been attached to dance and music for so long. Of course, leading to me writing about it.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Dionysus

Between the busy streets of Crete, the bustling and buzzing of townsfolk is like a beehive; every worker, merchant, school girl or boy traveling a spontaneous path towards a new destination.

Among these mortals is the mighty God, Dionysus. He walks with confidence, his fire flickering to the rhythm of his heart. With every step and breath it grows stronger and stronger still, pleased with the soft melody drifting in his ears.

The tune is airy, light...ethereal.

Dionysus has never heard a tune quite as colorful as this piece. Contrary to these streets, uncoordinated and messy, the song is clear and vibrant. It sounds like the season of October, where the leaves are a myriad of colors, gold, brown, and the like; their youth ends when the color dies, and they fall, only to be swept up by the wind to start anew by the hands of Gaea. A prelude to immortality of the seasons.

Who is the prodigy that performs this melody?

Apollo

The keys feel like feathers beneath his fingers. A gentle push is all it takes for the note to hang in the air. Repeat this twice, thrice more, and the piece is done.

Dionysus

The tune has stopped but not before he is able to locate the source. A small cottage surrounded by honeysuckle and marigold lay before Dionysus' eyes.

Plucking a flower from the garden, he travels toward the door.

_Knock, knock._

Apollo

He is not expecting to find a God at his door. The older man stood rather stiff, no doubt wanting to make a good impression, although he is already well-known.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your acquaintance, Lord Dionysus?" he asks.

Dionysus

"Beautiful."

Confusion, then shock, then embarrassment twists across the young man's face. Taking this opportunity to explain, Dionysus tells his story of wandering through the streets of Crete looking for inspiration for one of his upcoming projects. He describes the beautiful melody that struck his ears, slicing through the noisy buzzing of townsfolk. And how he decided to follow the tune, his ever-growing fire insisting that he seek whoever play it.

Apollo

After listening to his story, Apollo is left speechless. A **God** praised him of his accomplishments! But as luck would have it, he did not compose the song, only learned it out of curiosity; hidden underneath dusty old book shelves the title caught his attention, _The Four Season_ s.

Apollo apologizes disappointedly, "I am sorry to have confuse you Lord Dionysus but it was not I who composed the piece; a lowly being such as me could not have created such a work of art. I very much appreciate your praise, however."

Dionysus

"My, how modest you are. Nonetheless, your excuses mean nothing. I still wish to have you as my partner. I have never, in all generations past, ever heard such clarity or passion such as yours. The way you play lifts my tired soul exceptionally, as it will others I'm sure. Won't you come with me to Mount Olympus?"

Their eyes meet, no doubt the man was looking for some sort of trick in Dionysus' words. Growing impatient, Dionysus sighs and adds, "May I remind you that a _God_ is offering the opportunity to become immortal" he hisses, "and that your only labor would be to indulge yourself in ink scrawled pages of music day and night? You would have private sessions with me, working with the grandest of pianos, the best of composers such as the Muses." His words seem to be having their desired effect; the boy's eyes gleam with want. He continues, "This is a scholarship that would easily be taken by other mortals, the ticket to an easy life. You should be grateful and accept."

Apollo

His response is immediate. How long had he wanted to forget the struggles of the world and just spoil himself in music?

"I accept! Please take me as your apprentice, Lord Dionysus." And with that, his sentence was decided. With a snap of the God's fingers, a chariot wound by a Pegasus carries them through cloud and skies.

 _Thump, thump, thump_ goes the beat of his heart.

Dionysus

They land on a warm marble platform, immediately graced by various domestics as they take his coat and chariot to his chamber. Dionysus is not shocked to see that the boy has his mouth agape, no doubt stunned by the grandness of Mount Olympus. It is far less crowded and several times quieter there than the land of Crete. Voice quivering with anticipation, the boy speaks, "When do we begin?"

Dionysus answers, "Use this scenery to create a poem. If I deem it worthy enough, then I will keep my word and turn you into a God. If not however, you will be sent back to your home, where rags and scarce meals await you." Once again with a snap of his fingers, Dionysus is whisked away into the unknown, only to leave a note along with parchment paper and pen saying, _You have until the sun meets its horizon. Good luck Apollo._

Apollo

He frantically begins to jot down descriptions of what he sees and orders them into an organized pattern of words. Mount Olympus is very intimidating; but the closer Apollo lay to the ground, the more alive he feels. It would be an honor to live here and be a part of something so glamorous. Apollo reads his poem several times over, looking for any minuscule error in his grammar. His poem must be the best; only then will he impress Lord Dionysus.

Dionysus 

_Time is up,_ he thinks. Within a second he is once again before the young man. His chest is out, chin up, it would be safe to say that the boy seems rather confident. Gracefully, Dionysus strides toward Apollo and takes the paper from his hands. It reads:

_What is this kingdom?_   
_Where the clouds are below us_   
_Seasons are rested_

_Where fearless Gods lay_   
_Where time is infinite here_   
_Wealth is abundant_

_What is this kingdom_   
_That makes my heart batter now?_   
_That makes my palms sweat_

_This grand mountaintop_   
_Made from titans past, of stone_   
_T'is Mount Olympus_

Amazed by how quickly a poem of this quality had been created, Dionysus has already decided the boy's fate.

With a charming smile and clap of his hands, Dionysus says, "Congratulations. You are now a God." Apollo's baggy sheets transform into robes of silk and rose, his hair alternates from brown to black, then gold. His skin becomes as flawless as Narcissus (or close to it) leaving all wrinkles and scars blanketed in a soft glow of perfection.

"Welcome to Mount Olympus."  
  
  
  
  
  


Apollo

Years or so have passed since he was tested by Lord Dionysus. Now in his chamber, he sits at the piano playing hymns, minuets, and waltzes composed by himself. Every night he would make his way to Zeus' palace and perform a piece of his choosing. And every time, he would receive a nod of approval or applause if his mood was decent that day.

By request, he was granted, recently, permission to send bis newest poems and songs to the men and women of Greece, and soon became known as Apollo, the God of music and poetry. A fitting name.

So now, at his instrument, he plays and plays and will never stop, the need to distribute all he can to the world an overwhelming desire.

_This is where he belongs._


	5. Ravens After Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is purely choreography in my head. 
> 
> This is fanbased off of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham from the TV series Hannibal. I may or may not go further with this chapter. We'll see.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

In a barren wasteland, time stands still. They breathe in the stale, musky air of sweat and grime and regard each other with infatuation.

In the distance, two tornadoes head in their direction.

They are running out of time.

With a screech, the raven flaps its wings, armed with steel feathers. It cranes its neck, red eyes glowing at the approaching threat.

Grunting in challenge, the stag grows its antlers high and far, scuffing its hooves across the stubble ground.

Before either beast can charge, the tornadoes sweep them up, just as the sun rises to its full peak after dawn.

 


	6. 5 of Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five or so minutes pass with us just holding each other. Terre is mindful of my right knee as he climbs over my body completely from our awkward, slanted position. With my consent he removes the other cotton ball and silky blindfold. "Hi." I say. His bright green eyes are as beautiful as ever. Just like Terre's name, the Earth's forests are transfused in his eyes, which mimic leafy greens and mossy grass.  
>         
> "Hi." he replies. I can tell that he's drawing the same conclusion about my eyes. They are a dark blue, as deep as the depths of the ocean.  
>         
> We melt together to create something new; I water the green, the sun bathes him in light, the green flourishes and gives birth to even bigger pieces of land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is dedicated to Property_of_Gaara . This person has requested a ManxMan story of any genre.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Five of Everything**  

 

       Another Hunter comes charging at me with a metal pole from behind; I spin around quickly to shoot him with the gun, firing three rounds at his beefy body. A muffled scream clouds my ears like smoke and he drops to the ground like the others.

       It's quiet now.

       No wind no wolf howls; you could hear a pen drop in this silent oil factory. Terre is nowhere to be seen, but tell-tale drops of his blood permeates the air so I know he's here. His senses probably couldn't handle all the action. He _is_ still learning how to control them. And to be in a fight this gory....I can only hope that he didn't have an overload.

       A twitch in the corner of my eye startles the shit out of me and I whip my head around, only to roll my eyes. One of the Hunters I took out is still trying to attack, clutching his right flank where a large blood stain thickly clots his jacket, pathetic, dull throwing knives out of reach. I walk over to him with an unimpressed stare and kick away the knives smugly. The Hunter's large, doe green eyes glare at me, plump red lips quivering. Honestly, he's so pathetic and adorable that I find myself giggling. He could have been a cute partner to work with, and with his pretty raven hair, I would have enjoyed raking my hands through it.

       But he's not so, definitely his fault.

       The Hunter's jaw pops out of place on impact with my foot as I kick his face in, a delirious smile on my lips. I have never had any hesitation when it comes to killing these people. You could call it a personal a grudge, but the real reason is because the less of them there are, the more of us can repopulate. Hunters are selfish people and their curiosity usually gets the best of them whenever they find something new to take from our territory.

       Oil: new. Metals: new. Rare beasts such as ourselves: a nuisance.

       We are not lesser beings nor are we above them, but Hunters see us as threats because of our unique hunting capabilities. We have five of everything; five times the normal hearing, five times the normal taste, you get the idea. And it's because of this that they hunt us almost every day, attempting to get rid of the people who are key niches in keeping this community alive.

      Right now only a small group of us lives; Terre, Soleil, and Mere (that's me). We are taking out groups of Hunters little by little to bring our population back up from the barren so this land can flourish again. The lakes are polluted, our ancient trees have been cut down. It's only a matter of time before-

       "Mere."

       Although my hearing is dialed down, Terre has made it possible for me to jump out of my skin anyway. I turn on my heel to face him with a scowl. "Why do you always do that?"

       He looks at me with those clueless green eyes of his. "Do what?"

       "You always manage to scare me somehow even when my senses are down."

        "Well, it's not my fault you scare easily."

        I roll my eyes. Terre meets me halfway across the room, just like we always do during combat. helps us regroup faster and it's a good first aid technique for during or after battle. Right now it looks like we're both fine, even with the all the blood soaking our clothes. I turn my hearing back up, sighing at the familiar wolf howls and chirping of crickets. It's good to know that we're restoring populations again.

       "Everything clear on your side?" I ask.

       "Yep. Yours too?"

      "Mhm." Terre and I exit the warehouse, steadily avoiding dead Hunter's bodies and puddles of blood. Little by little, I allow my senses to come back to me at a steady pace; first hearing, then touch, taste, and lastly sight. If we were to turn them on all at once then our bodies would go into a sensory overload.

       A sensory overload is like a migraine but five times worse. Trust me, it's not fun.

       Once again: _Not. Fun._

       "So how many more groups are there?" Terre asks. He combs through his unruly, thick brown hair and holds my hand as we walk through the forest. Twigs crunch beneath our feet, releasing a sweet scent of maple as they break.

       "No matter how many Hunters fall, they always seem to replace themselves. I don't think we're ever going to get rid of all of them."

       "We can try. At least the community is starting to grow again."

       "I know. It makes me happy too, to finally hear the wolves again." Pink lips nuzzle my jaw. I purr softly. "But, just to answer your question there are five left."

        Climbing over boulders is a painful feat. We pant and sweat and support each other as we ascend Hitman Mountain with caution; one false step and you die. Home is just within sight, about three more miles from where we are.

       "That's not many, but our group isn't as big anymore. The job might be too much for us to handle, huh?" Our feet hit the platform with a harsh _smack._

       "Yeah." I pant. My heart is racing fast, but we aren't even climbing anymore.

       Weird.

       Maybe I'm out of shape?

       A palm finds its way to my chest, beating along to the thumps of my heart. Terre catches me when I trip on a buried rock. "Woah! Mere, watch where you're stepping." he scolds.

       I would try to argue, but it seems like my voice doesn't want to cooperate. A sharp pain bursts somewhere down my leg, sending me to the ground and I scream in agony. Terre is by my side in a second, calling my name. "Look at me, breath. Keep all attention on me, Mere." But the pain is so bad that I can't even look at him in the eyes, much less open them. The moon is too bright, the air is too sweet, and my body flinches ever time a bead of sweat rolls down my skin.

       Terre attempts to lift me up from the ground, sending a fiery burst of pain through my whole body. "No!" I scream. "Don't...." Even though my eyes are closed, a spinning top twirls behind them, accelerating at each twitch of muscle. Nausea pulses endlessly like a water balloon getting ready to explode at anytime.

       "Crap." Terre curses. His voice sounds like metal on metal in my ears; I whimper in pain. "Mere, you were shot in the knee. The pain will only get worse unless you dial down."

       Bile surges up my throat and out my mouth in a thin stream. The stench is horrible.

       "Mere."

       Another burst of pain in my knee.

       "Babe."

       Wolves' howls echo endlessly in my head.

     "Turn...i' _of_ _f ._ " I slur. Am I even talking? My voice is like a cat's purr in a sea of dogs, drowned out by louder and more obnoxious noises.

      Muscles trembling, metal grating on metal, sweet and sour, hot fire....

       I black out.

* * *

 

       " _His fever went down_."

       " _What about the swelling_ _?_ "

       " _It's not as bad, but still there. He won't be able to walk for a while...."_ Terre's familiar voice rouses me awake. He sounds fuzzy, like a muzzle has been placed over his lips.

       Something tickles my ears and I realize that cotton is tucked neatly in my eardrum. Then, a cool feeling over my face; probably a blindfold. I notice that my body temperature is cooler now, no blankets over me like I expected. Something delicious, a soothing, tangy lemon syrup melts on my tongue.

       "Mere _?_ " Soleil calls. I grunt in response.

       "How are you feeling?" Terre asks.

       "How bad is it?" Oh God, it hurts to speak.

       "You won't be able to walk on your own for-" Soleil cautiously removes one of the cotton balls, probably to make sure I'm listening. She continues in a quiet voice, "a while. But we can give you crutches."

       "Damn." Dry coughs bellow, rubbing the internal flesh raw several times over. Terre wipes away the wetness on my cheeks.

       "Can you give us a minute?" he asks. Soleil pads quietly to the door; a heavy thud of redwood bark closes on her way out. I wait patiently for Terre to talk, too tired to pick up on conversation. I sigh in content when more of that tangy liquid trickles past my lips. "You were screaming." he whispers. "You were in a lot of pain."

       "Overload." is all I can manage.

       "I know. God I'm so sorry. I should have noticed that you were hurt. And now because of me you're suffering and-" I cut Terre off midsentence and pull him by his elbow as hard as I can. My muscles are trembling still, so I can't tug as hard, but the desired effect is still the same when Terre crashes to my body, barley holding back his weight so I won't be crushed. I embrace him in silence. Hopefully, this idiot gets the message and will stop blaming himself. I hate it when he does that.

       "Love you." I whisper. Terre combs his fingers through my raven hair, sending tingles of pleasure down my spine.

       "I love you too."

       Five or so minutes pass with us just holding each other. Terre is mindful of my right knee as he climbs over my body completely from our awkward, slanted position. With my consent he removes the other cotton ball and silky blindfold. "Hi." I say. His bright green eyes are as beautiful as ever. Just like Terre's name, the Earth's forests are transfused in his eyes, which mimic leafy greens and mossy grass.

       "Hi." he replies. I can tell that he's drawing the same conclusion about my eyes. They are a dark blue, as deep as the depths of the ocean.

       We melt together to create something new; I water the green, the sun bathes him in light, the green flourishes and gives birth to even bigger pieces of land.

       "If you want to kiss me, do it now before Soleil comes back." Terre chuckles, but I don't find it funny. We haven't been intimate in a while. "I'm serious babe." Terre gasps at the husky lure in my voice. His eyes burn with want.

       "When you're better." he answers. "But for now...." Our lips meet halfway in a supple kiss. Terre tastes like mint as always and the coolness behind it is so electrifying that I find more parts of me awakening. I run my hands along his arms. He cradles my cheek. Us just being us. Just taking things slow.

       "Are we going to take advantage of this situation?" I ask. A feeling similar to rose thorns piercing my knee causing my to see stars. I pause my hand's journey up Terre's shirt to squeeze his flesh, holding my breath to ride out the pain.

       "Not today. Not until you're better. Look at you, you're in pain." Damn him for making me feel so guilty. Terre always knows how to push my buttons.

       I must have a shameful look on my face because Terre sighs and kisses me again, but this time he floods it with reassurance. He pulls away and looks at me with a hopeful smile. "Don't worry, we have time. For now just focus on getting better. Okay?"

       "Yeah."

      Terre sighs. "Good."  He looks tired, like he hasn't slept in days. That just sends about a dozen red flags through my head at the possibility of him not taking care of himself because of me.

       "When was the last time you slept? How long was I...?"

       "You had a bad fever when you collapsed. You were out for two days." Terre shifts to lay on his side to face me. "The fever was pretty bad and...and you wouldn't stop screaming. It looked like you were having nightmares."

       Silence.

       "Mere?"

      "I don't want to talk about it."

      "I know you say that killing all those Hunters doesn't affect you, but we all know that isn't true babe." My harsh breathing is the only sound in the room besides Terre talking. Something akin to remorse pricks at my gut, causing me to close my eyes to block it out. Those nightmares are gruesome. Everything I do to the Hunters comes back to me like bad karma; I would be on a metal table in an empty room. A smaller table would creak, and groaned each time they shifted it to accommodate my position. Rounds would be fired into my chest, then gasoline poured over my body. They would light me on fire then drench me in ice cold water. My skin would be peeled back with thick knives to expose all the muscle.

       Torture would be the best word to describe it.

       "Yeah." I'm not sure if I'm admitting to being scared or admitting to the nightmares. Terre gives me a soothing look, in sympathy. "I'm tired." All of this exertion is killing me.

       "Go to sleep. I'll join you." he says. A thin blanket is pulled up over our shoulders. Terre snuggles close, tucking his chin between my shoulder, sighing against my neck. He kisses the skin once, twice, three times and closes his eyes.

       "Goodnight." I whisper.

       "Love you." Terre answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did I do?


	7. Drafting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! This was a story requested by LukHem13 a while ago. As opposed to the other shorts so far, this is our first ManxWoman based prompt! Yay!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Ten had everything planned out since the day she was born; the perfect school, the perfect job, the perfect car and house. Everything worked together to create benefits which she should eventually use to her advantage in the real world. As a straight A student with an impossibly high citizenship grade and long community service hours, Ten simply could not accept being alone the rest of her life. Her parents? Somewhere over the rainbow. Friends? Don't exist, at least not at the moment. Because right now, Ten is on the hunt. She _will_ succeed, even if she has to travel as far as Antarctica for Him. Just to obtain the one thing she doesn't have yet...the perfect guy.

Not for show, absolutely not! But a genuine, loving, responsible man who wouldn't mind if she worked overtime or exercised for fun. The perfect man, in Ten's eyes, could accept all of those things (according to her book).

Ah yes, the book! Well Ten can only say that everything she's ever wanted for herself is noted on those pages, front and back, and are separated into neat little chapters. For example, Chapter one states:

** "The perfect guy has kind eyes." **

Kind eyes, which promise to keep Ten safe for all of eternity. The boy sitting across her table in _Paynte_ has these eyes. They're blue, as bright as the pastel chalk sitting in front of her, and sparkle like apple cider. Ten bites her lip tenderly, admiring how attentive the man is toward his painting. He has black hair with white streaks and a non threatening physique, colored tan.

Tess sets down her chalk and wipes down her fingers, already itching to check off several other things in her book.

(+) Six feet tall  
(+) Artistic  
(+) Relaxed  
(?) Gay?

Ten groans silently and stares at the adjective for quite a while. How is she going to work up the courage to ask him? Should she just flat out say it? Maybe small talk to warm him up would be a better approach....

Ten gets herself so caught up in her head that she doesn't notice when two pieces of chalk clink to the floor and roll towards her target. She doesn't notice when he sets his paintbrush down and retrieves said chalk from the hard wood. Nor does she notice when the Man with Kind Eyes crouches next to her canvas and sets the chalk down. Ten doesn't notice any of these things until the man of her dreams (or book) says, "Excuse me miss? You dropped your chalk."

_The perfect guy is also polite, well noted Ten. So how should I ask?_

The painter tries to get Ten's attention once more, a little concerned with how her body seems to be frozen in place. He taps her bare shoulder twice, flinching back when the little lady gasps in shock. He gives a nervous smile and repeats his sentence. "Hi. You dropped your chalk near my table."

"I did? I'm so sorry, I didn't even notice, thank you." Ten starts to get up, "Near your table right? Excuse me, I'll just-"

"Oh I got it. See?" The man points to Ten's canvas, biting back a laugh. She's actually pretty cute.

"Oh. Duh. Um, thanks again."

"Yeah." The man (what the Hell is his name?) unfolds his legs to rise to full height above Ten, flexing beautifully toned thigh muscles simultaneously. Ten gulps in admiration, biting her lip again.

(+) Physical health, good condition

"It's pretty empty in here today." Ten notes, just to start conversation. She tucks a lock of blonde behind her ear, a sad look in her eyes. The man settles for clearing his throat and nodding.

"This place is loosing customers everyday. It's city life, you know? Nobody wants to just sit down and paint anymore."

(+) Understanding

"Well, except us." Ten smiles. The man gives an inner whoop of excitement. Call him cheesy, but he lives to see people happy everyday.

"That's right. Us. 'Us' being Blake and..."

"Ten."

"Ten." Blake nods.

The blonde bubbles with excitement; she's always the one starting conversation, it's never been reversed. Plus, her social skills aren't exactly up to par so that makes it awkward when trying to flirt with the Starbucks boy or Target guy. There's also the fact that it's embarrassing too but...

_Thank you chalk Gods!_

"So you like to paint, that's cool. I'm more of a sketch person, not a big fan of colors you know?" Blake moves back to his table and shifts his chair around to face Ten.

"What?! Color is half the fun though."

"For most people yeah, but to me it's too much hassle. Who wants to sit around all day and decide what color green the grass should be?" she smirks.

"Well black and white is no better either. That's like, silent films all over again."

"If I recall, silent films proved to be very successful back then."

"Damn. So she's monotone _and_ worships the fifties." Blake whistles. Of course he's playing with her though, because everyone has their own intake on art.

"Precisely." Ten confirms. She packs up her chalk in miniature tin cases, tossing them into her satchel along with her sketch book. If this guy is actually interested in Ten, he'll try to stop her or give her his number at most. Ten wants both, but there's no reason to be greedy.

"Aw, don't leave. I didn't mean what I said, I swear I was just kidding." Blake starts toward the blonde, intent on apologizing for his rudeness. He thought that she was playing around with him just now.

"Oh! What? No, no, it wasn't you. I promise. It's just late you know, and I kind of need to get ready for work tomorrow." Blake glances outside at the setting sun painting their city in a murky orange. He pulls out his phone to check the time, making Ten believe that he's about to ask for her number. Just as she opens her mouth to recite the ten digits, Blake frowns. "It is late huh? Seven o'clock."

"On the dot."

"Hm?"

"Nothing, it's just something my mom used to say. But uh, maybe we'll see each other again this week. Tomorrow maybe?" _Wrap things up Ten! Remember, the perfect guy is also flexible._

"Thursday. I can do that. What time?" Blake abandons Ten, prompting her to answer while he packs away his things as well.

"I get off at five thirty like today and my building is actually down the street. Is six fine?" Ten shivers in pleasure as Blake sweeps by her, exiting the door. She closes it behind her and stays close to the edge to avoid getting ran over by San Diego traffic.

"I might be a little late, but that's fine with me."

(+) Flexible

The two stare at each other for a while in silence, one of the two oblivious to the fact that they haven't answered yet.

"Is that okay?" Blake furrows his brows.

"Huh? Oh yeah, perfect. See you!" Ten takes off down the sidewalk awkwardly, trying to keep her skirt from billowing in the winds and flashing pedestrians. San Diego has enough people doing that already.

Behind her, Blake just smirks, a crinkle working at his eyes in amusement. He heads in the opposite direction, excited to see Ten once more.

**I'm sorry, I suck at ManxWoman, but I promise to get better!**

**See you next chapter!**


	8. Thomas Sinew Pulled the Trigger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short was not requested by anyone, but it is dedicated to the following people: Property_of_Gaara IamGayXD YaoiLuvr4Lyfe Feline_Fan
> 
> This short is placed in an Alpha/Beta/Omega verse, and will possibly be written into an actual story. If you guys like the general prompt and themes on relationship issues, then please comment and let me know.
> 
> Ejoy!

 

In bed lay a sickly blonde, offering his soul for the taking. The boy, Thomas, pants like a dog in the hot sun and hugs his stomach. The aching there is persistent and annoying. Sickening. He writhes in agony, just _burning_ because his skin is so sweaty and his muscles feel as if they are on fire.

Thomas keeps his eyes shut to keep a headache at bay, brought on by the dim oil lamp placed at his bed side. Runny nose, pounding head, nausea; Thomas is quite sick in the literal sense. Both mentally and physically.

At the foot of the mattress he feels their bed dip slightly past the roaring in his ears. "How are you feeling love?" his father asks. A cool cloth ripped from an old blouse is placed on the sick boy. Thomas can only shake his head and wish that he could feel something else cool for once; like his father's hands.

"Still bad huh? Poor thing, you're shivering. I bet you're burning up."

Thomas recoils, a nasty scowl and crinkle working up his nose; his father had just placed a spoon of thick soup against his lips. The metal clinks against his teeth as the blonde refuses to cooperate.

His father, Alec, sighs in exasperation. The warm spoon tucked neatly between his index, middle finger, and thumb droops dejectedly, spilling the soup into puddles on the floor. He puts it back in its respected home and lay the bowl next to their lamp. "You've been like this since yesterday Thomas. You need to eat something tonight, before the sun sets."

Thomas thinks about how magnificent it would be if his savoir came to rescue him in this boiling heat-filled fever. Would he release sedative chemicals and lull little Thomas to sleep? Would he kiss his tiny blonde head? Thomas shivers at the possibility.

"Call...him" the blonde chokes. He coughs sharply and curls up even more to shield his father from contamination. Ragged, wheezing breaths are the after affect to take affect and leave his lungs burning like hot coals. Thomas feels saliva dripping down his chin, adding to the musk and filth.

"I would but I can't." Alec gives no explanation for this reason. All the father does is stare at his feverish son silently, feeling hopeless. The poor thing is having trouble breathing it seems, nothing he can do except give a pat on the back and hope that his husband comes back soon. "He's coming home in a few hours though." Thomas' stomach starts to pulse like a ticking time bomb. Alec frowns. "Thomas?"

"Don't feel _good_...." Alec barely has time to shove a trashcan beneath his son's lips before Thomas is retching all over their bed. He moans every few seconds and then vomits again, repeating this cycle for what feels like twenty minutes. Alec wishes he could help out, but as an omega, there is nothing he can do except release calming scents, but they aren't working for some reason. The reason could be that Thomas doesn't see Alec as his father anymore, but that possibility is too scary to think of.

Now, a putrid stench fills their room, Thomas is growing paler by the minute, and Alec is cursing his husband for going out into the storm and leaving them there. He tries to be noble all the time, like the selfless alpha he is, but when it comes to family, all of a sudden Rane disappears without a word. Now they're stuck at home in the middle of a thunder storm with no electricity or running water and their sick son. Alec bites his lip, maybe he can convince Thomas to go to bed early. But then again, this is the comfort that Thomas has been craving for a while now and he knows that his son will wait forever if it means seeing Rane sitting by his bedside. He's been neglected by both of them and their constant fighting lately. Just...forgotten.

"Daddy?" Thomas calls. He hugs his stomach tight and swallows thickly. The sheets wrinkle as he shifts his lean body belly up to take a good look at his blonde haired father. Alec lowers the trashcan in his hand and removes the cloth from Thomas' pale skin.

"Where's papa?"

"I don't know baby boy." Damn it all if Alec thinks he will admit to missing his alpha. Wherever he is right now, he better stay there.

Thomas coughs again, trapped fluids fighting against his rib cage, causing the blonde's body to seize violently and ignite a fiery hot red blush heating like hot plates on his cheeks. Thomas feels like he can't breathe, he can hear himself wheezing painfully and calling for daddy. All of this is just as frustrating to him as it is for Alec and he doesn't like it. He wants daddy to come home, he wants the rain to stop pounding against their fragile window. He wants to be held in both his parent's arms like they used to. Thomas remembers late nights spent with them in the summer, eating popcorn and watching movies. Things were okay then, he was having a good childhood. The creepy crawlers never came into his bed at night because daddy scared them away. And Thomas always had good dreams because Papa would place his special blanket over him before bed. That blanket is gone now; it was ripped when they were fighting one day before nap time.

Since then, things were never the same between his parents. Words like 'fighting for custody' or 'you need to leave' have turned into Thomas' frightening, new reality.

"Shit." Alec hisses. He leans over to embrace his son tightly and heave his back against the headboard. Thomas doesn't sound like he's breathing very good, which means the fluid in his lungs is building up and asserting pressure. This position should help some, but if Thomas doesn't take any medicine soon, he just might die of internal suffocation.

Alec places a hand on Thomas' chest, feeling his heart fluttering at an alarming pace. Sweat is soaking his poor boy's white shirt, his skin a sickly pale shade, tears streaming freely, and heart wrenching sobs all the product of stress and neglect.

What is Alec supposed to do? This is a two man job! "Honey, I...Thomas. Just...." Alec can hear his voice wavering in frustration. He feels useless, helpless. Not of any use. Tears are flowing down his cheeks now, so Alec hunches over to hide them from his son. Thomas doesn't need to see his heartbreak. He doesn't need _thi_ s in general. Because this situation between him and Rane is too much. The heartbreak is _too much._ And Alec just wants the disappointment to stop so badly but....

**_What is he supposed to do?!_ **

Thomas will never get the care he needs here. "Daddy...." he moans.

"I know baby. It hurts, I know. All of this is unfair to you." Alec sobs. "You d-don't...you don't deserve this." Alec sniffles and grips the roots of his hair. "My child being sick, spending endless nights alone in bed, having no friends to turn to.... **It's not worth it**!" Alec finally snaps, shooting off the bed and yelling at nothing. He's had enough bullshit in one lifetime. All he sees is red, all he feels is anger.

Alec doesn't remember hearing Thomas collapse on his side in a coughing fit, nor does he remember Thomas retching all over their bed, calling for daddy to come help. The only thing Alec remembers is trashing their house in rage, throwing lamps to the floor and anything else breakable. Dishes, pottery, vases. He tears up posters on the wall and as payment, receives cuts and gashes upon his hands. He screams and screams, every so often being muted by the angry thunder crashing outside their home.

Alec cries helplessly.

He drops to his knees by the kitchen sink and throws away their wedding ring into the garbage disposal. "I hate you." is all he can say past his achy throat.

As he comes down from the high and fit of rage, Alec picks himself up from the floor and travels back to Thomas' room. The crying hasn't ceased yet, but at least the pent up anger is gone.

"Thomas, baby... Oh my God!" _No! No no no no!_ "Baby wake up! Thomas! Baby!" Alec tries shaking his son by the shoulders, but little does he know, his attempts are in vain.

Thomas' fever came to an all time high, leading up to a seizure and bright red skin. His tiny body still twitches due to previous tension in his muscles, specifically the neck and back. Bile stained pink coats Thomas' chin and cheeks, mixing in with the fluid of his tears. He must have been in so much pain, in so much agony and depression....

Thomas is no longer breathing because he choked on his own sick and had a serious respiratory strain. That would be the explanation Alec would give to his husband when he comes home, _if_ he comes home. What would the blond haired, blue eyed alpha do to him? They lost their only son, their only pup. Alec wouldn't want to try again if this would be the end product. He could only imagine what would be written on Thomas' tombstone:

Thomas died asking for help but nobody listened.

He wanted affection, but nobody could give it to him.

Thomas Sinew pulled the trigger on Alec and Rane's relationship once and for all.


	9. Reminisce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short was requested by artxamnisia and it is a fanfiction, featuring Anthony Stark and Captain America. You do not need to know the fandom in order to understand this, but I'm not forcing you to read it either. 
> 
> In the first part of this short, you will be introduced to a relationship between two men. There is no conflict in this chapter, but definitely expect jealousy, romance, and betrayal in the next. That's all I have to say.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Anthony Stark groans and stretches languidly from his seated position, hearing joints pop at the effort. A bone deep fatigue brought on by week long all nighters has left his body achy, sore, and cramped to the point where even waking up seems too hard.

What would Steve say at a time like this? Something like....

Tony is too unfocused for brain action, he has no energy to make fun of the captain right now. So he settles for letting his eyelids drift shut again, blocking out the dim lights of the lab. He didn't even notice when his head hit the table (pretty hard actually) until screws and puddles of some type of chemical kiss his cheek. Yeah, sleep sounds like a very smart plan from where he's sitting.

"Jar..." he slurs. Tony realizes that the speakers might still be on high volume, so braces himself for the loud response; or tries to, considering that his body feels one thousand times heavier and he can't even manage to lift a muscle, never mind cover his ears.

"Yes sir?" But the AI responds in a low, soothing hum of words; Tony is very, very grateful.

"Steve." he calls. His cheek starts to itch and Tony realizes that he probably should not be having skin contact with the chemical, and that maybe it would be a good idea to move. But Jarvis' lullaby-like voice and drowsy state of mind have rendered him immobile.

"I will call him now sir." Jarvis responds. Tony keeps his lips sealed from then on and waits patiently for his savior to come pick him up from the ashes. Or spare parts, whatever.

Nothing but the sound of his light breathing echoes in the cluttered space of Tony's lab, leaving the genius feeling lonely. Bruce is usually in his company, but as of late the green bean has been called away on long distance trips, both national and commercial, to promote Tony's technology company more. Tony would go himself, if it weren't for the many backstabbers that work for him (the shady bastards).

Tony jerks awake- the most responsive he has been all day- when something warm lay against his forehead, with another 'something' cradling the nape of his neck, preventing the genius from slumping once more. Should he open his eyes to investigate or just assume that this is Steve? Tony decides on the latter and keeps his eyes closed.

"Hi Tony." Steve whispers. The genius hums in response, both in greeting and because the hand on his forehead has migrated toward his scalp; Steve massages there tenderly with the pads of his fingers. "You look like Hell." Honestly, Steve expected to see Tony like this, so he is prepared to perform his famous R&R (rest and rehabilitation) instinctively.

Looks like sleep will be the first priority, judging by the dark bruising beneath his eyes and jello-like fluidity of his movements. Tony may not realize it, but Steve has him standing up and walking out of the lab without so much as another word, only keeping the man's body from tipping over like the Tower of Pisa from time to time. The moment Steve and Tony reach the elevator, Tony is dead weight in his arms and snoring softly.

"Jarvis. Take us to our room please." The elevator shifts on command, increasing its gravity scale momentarily before the weight evens out again, and they are descending the staircase shaped tower fluidly.

From their departure, Steve carries Tony back to his room, cradling the back of his neck for support and both knees tucked on top of the soldier's elbow. The black cotton shirt that Steve is wearing camouflages Tony's hair slightly, adding a darker hue to their bond.

The genius' mane looks...well, a hot mess to be honest, but adorable all the same. Steve remembers having to cut it down one day when Tony decided to be holed up in his lab an entire month; when he came out, his hair nearly reached the line of his shoulders. He tried to fight Steve, saying that he liked his new locks, but the captain knew that Tony was just playing.

Steve finds himself smiling at the memory when he enters their room two minutes later, still not fatigued after carrying his lover down several floors from the lab. But that's just Steve; he's an easily pleased person who loves reminiscing in the times. Both past, present, and future.

He pulls the charcoal grey blanket back and lay Tony on navy blue sheets, propping his head up with a singular, tunnel white pillow. Steve requests for the temperature to be brought down so that Tony will be comfortable with enough air circulation, then resets the blanket over his legs and chest. Tony hardly stirs in his sleep with so much attention being paid to him.

Just as Steve turns to draw the curtains, a tickling sensation causes him to jump in place. He brings his right hand to the pocket in his shorts where the vibration took place and pulls out his phone, smiling even harder when a familiar name pops up on the screen.

**Bucky: Hey, what are you doing today?**

Bucky is an old colleague from high school that Steve used to hang out with on a daily basis. The same football team, the same part time job, late nights out at fun hangout spots; they did everything together. In their junior year though, Bucky had to move due to his father's work. They were separated, five thousand and six hundred-forty one miles away from here in California; Bucky moved to Germany.

Steve ended up keeping his number, not daring to erase his best friend from his contacts since then. Now, it seems like they might have a chance to meet up after all these years.

The captain twiddles his thumbs around the screen aimlessly before finally deciding on what to reply with.

**Steve: Nothing. Are you back in town? Bucky's response is immediate.**

**Bucky: Yeeessss sir! I'm staying at a hotel right now, near the high school we used to go to. Did you want to meet up? (Please say yes** )

Steve glances back at Tony, who is snoring softly again. He's shifted positions, now bearing his front side to Steve, toward the window. He probably won't wake up for a while....

**Steve: Of course. What hotel are you staying at? Should I make a dinner reservation?**

**Bucky: Some place called Steel. And you don't have to. If anything, I think we should just catch a cheap diner somewhere nearby, just like old times. ;-)**

**Steve: Okay. I'll be there soon!**

**Bucky: Can't wait! See you.**

Steve tucks his phone back into his pocket and freshens up a little in the bathroom, combing his hair, washing his face and brushing his teeth although he's about to eat. He wonders if Bucky grew or if he looks the same as when they said goodbye. Well, I'll just have to find out. he thinks. Steve goes over the different possibilities of how Bucky's appearance might have changed anyway while riding the elevator down to the tower's main level. He asks Jarvis to call a cab, and waits patiently by the lobby doors.

He can't wait to see Bucky!

 


	10. Reminisce Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation from the previous chapter. Remember you guys, there will be plenty of angst, hurt/comfort, jealousy, etc in this chapter. Maybe some lovey dovey stuff, but we'll see. You just have to read to find out ;-)

 

         The first observation Tony makes, is the lack of another's body heat pressed at his back with his semi-sober conscience. He isn't sure what to think of this , knowing that Steve always joins him in bed no matter the time of day, so Tony puts his Sherlock brain to use and starts pulling clues. Just to be more awesome, he keeps his eyes closed.

         Normally the genius would hear scratching noises somewhere nearby, which would usually mean that Steve was sketching portraits or scenery from outside. But just like in the lab, Tony can hear absolutely nothing, not even the busy New York traffic down below. In short, Tony is completely... _alone_.

           Which brings up his next question: Where did his beautiful, blonde veteran go?

           Tony whiffs the air, catching a scent of mint. He pops his eyes open, now fully awake, and undresses the bed to escape. He follows his nose while being drawn to the bathroom, where the vague mint grows ten times more pungent. Steve's toothbrush is dry, as well as the sink, but he left the cap to the tube open. Which _means_ that Steve brushed his teeth about a few hours ago. Steve only brushes his teeth in the morning and evening, sometimes in the middle of the day if he plans on going out; Tony is sure that night hasn't fallen yet, but he asks Jarvis anyway.

           "Wow. I slept for that long?" Okay scratch that, it _is_ evening, just after seven P.M.. Tony concludes that Steve must have gone out and hasn't come back for a while. He _could_ be somewhere in the tower, but another question to Jarvis confirms his doubts.

            "Did he say where he was going?" Tony asks, leaving the bathroom for food instead. His stomach is as empty as can be, protein bars and shots of whiskey leaving his body in a lack of supply in other nutrients. If Steve were here, he'd probably fix Tony up some stomach filling meal with tons of fruits and veggies after waking up; sometimes the veteran has to force feed Tony, one reason being because it's funny, and the second because healthy stuff sucks.

            "No sir. But he did ask me to call a cab earlier when you were sleeping." the AI responds. Tony grumbles something incoherent at that.

            He enters the kitchen after a quick journey down the hall; he squints at shiny glass bottles, dishes, and other stuff he doesn't care to name littering his kitchen. It looks like a modernized, American, sequined dress with too much glitter. This thought makes Tony giggle- the deranged lunatic he is- and sigh.

            The tower feels so empty without his partner....

            "Okay, enough with the sappiness Tony." He slaps his cheeks for added effect. "Jarvis, do me a favor and order...oh! That turkey and avocado sandwich Steve likes and some watermelon salad. Throw in two slices of chocolate cheesecake too, while you're at it." Tony practically grumbles the entire order, only perking up some when he adds in the cheesecake. Steve can make him eat healthy all he wants, but when it comes to sugar, Tony is all about cheesecake.

             Oh what was that? You thought he was going to cook dinner for his beloved? Well how about you lean in and let Tony tell you a little secret....

 

  ** _Never gonna happen babe._ **

 

           "Your order has been placed sir. It will be delivered in about ten minutes." Just as always, Jarvis is well organized and polite, much to Tony's annoyance. Sometimes the genius wants the AI to screw up or cuss or _something_. It's just boring otherwise. But today, Tony will not complain because one, he needs food, and two Jarvis being efficient all the time gives him a few reasons to slack off some. So he nods his head, as though he were communicating with a real person, and rests his sleeve clad elbows on the counter near the sink. Tony is still tired, given that he has only had a few hours of sleep; but he is much better compared to earlier. Steve came to his rescue, Steve carried him, Steve tucked him in bed, Steve--

            "Okay enough of this." Tony stops his mind rambling and rolls his bruised eyes irritably. He raises his voice some, "Jarvis, go incognito." His mind is on a never ending route through the woods of picket signs with Steve's face on it, starting to make Tony claustrophobic. His life isn't completely Steve, and Steve has a life that isn't completely Tony. The man probably went out for a drive or to visit a park or get new inspiration for his drawings; he's probably being, well...Steve. A man who is always self-motivated, a man who can always put a plan into action. So Tony needs to do the same and take a breather.

             By thinking of Steve of course.

            He strides back to his room, knowing that once 'incognito' mode has been activated, Jarvis will cease to respond or alert him until Tony says 'in view'; another benefit from this mode is that he can ignore calls he doesn't want easily or annoying package deliveries that the AI can sign by himself. Basically, Jarvis is on autopilot (even more than usual) and taking care of everything for the genius (more than usual).

            With a quiet hiss, the door to Tony and Steve's room slides open, revealing a lonely, barren mattress and dim lighting. Tony takes it in his hands to make the most out of his alone time.

            The genius doesn't remember anything from there, just a cold shock of sheets, a fragrant scent of vanilla, sweat dripping down his body, and release. He pants heavily and basks in the afterglow, pulling a tissue from the small desk at his side and wiping down. He disposes of the tissue and winces at the lack of condoms filling the waste bin. Steve and Tony haven't had sex in a long time (two weeks ago) which has left him feeling unsatisfied. The warm, fuzzy feeling is there, absolutely, but Tony doesn't feel content. He's still...needy.

            Maybe when the veteran comes back home they can arrange a few things....

 ***

           "Really man, it was nice seeing you." Steve claps Bucky on the shoulder playfully, gives a twenty for the cab ride home, and exits the vehicle. Our blonde haired veteran has just finished dining with his best friend, Bucky Barnes. It is now eight o'clock and he is bidding farewell so he can get home and coddle Tony.

           The door claps shut but the window remains open, allowing his best friend to smile brightly and wave. Some nostalgic expression plays on his face, eyes lit up and a pink tint to his cheeks from the alcohol they consumed earlier. Bucky isn't lightweight, but getting buzzed comes fairly easily to him. "See ya man. I'll text you later." he winks.

           Steve just smiles and walks into Stark Industries, home and work palace of the infamous Anthony Stark. He has been oblivious to his friend's flirting the entire evening, playing off each (one second too long) hug and body on body grinding (sitting in his lap) for making up lost time. Steve isn't complaining though, he actually kind of liked it.

"Jarvis, is Tony still sleeping?" he asks as the elevator ascends smoothly.

As always, the AI answers immediately. "No Mr. Rogers. He woke up earlier and asked where you were-"

"Did you tell him?" Steve interrupts. He hopes Tony hasn't been waiting all this time for him without any clue of where he was.

"I was not sure where you went. Sir has put it upon himself to prepare dinner for you, however." Steve completely blurs the end of Jarvis' sentence, mulling over the fact that Tony actually waited for him to come home; he didn't fly out of the tower in a fit of paranoia, convinced that Steve has cheated on him with some shady woman or call his phone 'Just because I was curious'. Tony trusted Steve to come home even though Steve left without a trace.

"Okay." Steve utters. "Take me to him please," Before he gets a chance to finish, the elevator doors open, unmasking the hallway to the bedrooms and kitchen. Steve nods his head in acknowledgement to Jarvis.

Back in the kitchen, Tony is unpacking some warm sandwiches from a foil padded box and laying them on stone plates decoratively. Plastic storage containers are tossed in the trash as he finishes loading their plates with reasonable serving sizes of salad (oh God, he's turning into Steve),  and refrigerates the delicious chocolate cheesecake lastly. Tony is swaying his hips ridiculously to old 80's indie music, oblivious of the other silhouette standing behind him. Tony straightens up, satisfied, and chokes down a scream at the last minute as he turns around.

"Jesus, Steve. For a big guy, you make less noise than I do." Tony exclaims. He huffs a breathy laugh and pulls his blondie close. The genius will never admit it, but having Steve outside his line of vision is terrifying; Tony wants him close, always.

Steve chuckles when Tony jumps three feet in the air and returns the man's hug. He nuzzles his chin into Tony's messy (-er than usual) hair and rocks them back and forth tranquilly. His eyes finally land on the beautiful dinner set before them; Steve shudders with guilt.

"What? Excited to see me?" Tony says, more than asks. He gives a playful smirk as they detach, his smaller, but still well built body landing on a dinning chair. Steve gives a face and Tony--

"You _and_ another person, actually. Um," Steve joins his partner at the table. He keeps his gaze trapped on the beautifully crafted cuisine; this is his favorite meal. "I meant to tell you but I got so excited. You were sleeping and..."

"Hey. Eyes up here Cap." Tony reminds. He's still wearing a smirk and Steve is sure that his soul won't be ripped into scrap metal. "It's fine that you went out, but next time leave a note or something. Jarvis and I weren't sure where you went, just that you caught a cab and ditched me for a few hours." His tone is playful but still hits Steve in the wrong places. Tony picks up his sandwich eagerly (Right, he hasn't eaten a decent meal in forever). His jaw stretches over each layer, words muffled by the food in his mouth. "Where'd you go anyway?" he asks.

Suddenly, all the memories from a couple hours ago come flooding through his veins like adrenaline, causing the blonde's eyes to light up spectacularly. "My old friend came back to visit me. We hung out for a while and ate at a diner." Steve isn't aware of the (barely noticeable) disappointed look on Tony's visage. He continues on. "Man, it's funny how people can just change so much over time. I mean, the last time I saw him he was shorter than me, had rougher hair. Now the guy is buff like you wouldn't believe and has a, a...a mane! God, I missed him."

"High school buddy?" Tony asks. The salad on his plate is untouched, but he makes a move to take a quick bite for Steve's praise.

He doesn't get it.

"Yeah. All the way through- Well, not really. He moved to Germany in junior year." Steve continues. His chair rocks back and forth as he gestures animatedly with his body. "His name is Bucky."

 _Strange name_ , Tony thinks. "I'm glad you got to see him. Trust me I know the feeling." And Tony genially means that. A small smile crinkles his tired eyes, no longer bruised or puffy, showing happiness for his partner. As long as he is around, Tony wants to have the chance to see Steve happy like this all the time.

But little did he know, their relationship would be compromised in the near future.

* * *

 Over the next few weeks, Steve has been visiting Bucky nonstop, leaving Tony by himself in the tower to spend nights alone. The sheets on Steve's side of the bed are stale and cold and lack the normal body heat that would usually lay there beside him. And the tower has been unusually quiet as well, no doubt due to the lack of conversation. In order to fill that silence, Tony holes himself up in the lab for days at a time, coming up with useless mechanisms to keep busy. Bored wouldn't even begin to describe his mood.

And if anything, the temptation to just call Steve every morning just to check on him, reminds Tony how that turned out last time when he was still paranoid about their relationship. He doesn't want to screw up his progress now, concluding that this is better in the long run.

But sometimes the urge becomes too much and Tony feels like he can't breathe all of a sudden, the world becoming too big for him to handle. So he would end up calling Steve, determined to spend some time with him and not the large (overpriced) flat screen on his wall. Not one of his wishes have been granted, to his annoyance. Bruce would try to cheer Tony up and make conversation with the genius, know how each rejection-of-invite lessened his patience each time. All he can manage is an, "Uh huh. Sure." to amuse Bruce.

 **Steve: Hey, I'm spending the night again. Bucky says 'hi'.** Is what greets Tony after he finishes his shower, smelling of vanilla and spice.

Rage bubbles through Tony's veins, all the blood from his erection rushing toward his face in its stead. In a small burst of anger, Tony chucks the sophisticated piece of technology onto the bed; it bounces twice before flicking its screen light off, the impact hitting the phone's power button. He was expecting to rendezvous with his partner this afternoon, planning a night of star gazing at a nice park and having a cheesy, romantic picnic. Only now, Tony has been abandoned yet again by this notorious, Bucky Barnes.

This can't continue. Tony has had enough.

"Jarvis! Tell Steve to get his ass down here." he barks. "In those exact words!"

"Yes Sir." The AI's response comes hesitantly, as if knowing how much trouble the ex veteran will be in once he gets there. Sure enough, not even two minutes later, Steve is calling his phone. "We need to talk." Tony says, sparing their usual greetings.

"Hi babe!" An unfamiliar voice-probably Bucky's-shouts over the line cheerfully. Tony feels his eye twitch.

"Where the Hell is Steve?"

"He's-"

"You know what? I don't care. You get your ass down here too." Just the happiness of Bucky's voice is enough to spark the untapped madness in Tony's heart. How the Hell is this guy so damn cheerful? Why did he answer the phone so casually, as if Tony were just another guy on the street?

"Uh. Okay?" Is Bucky's confused response. Tony takes that as enough of an answer and drops the line. He slams his phone on their shared nightstand (now barren of Steve's charger and phone) and starts wiping down the moisture from his skin. He throws on some clothes, picking out each garment carefully.

Tony isn't flashy, per se, but when it comes to showing off, he wants the world to know who Steve belongs to. Bucky is no exception.

* * *

 

 

"You're being ridiculous Tony!"

"Flowers, Steve! He gave you fucking flowers!"

"He was just being nice!"

"Oh my God! How the Hell are you so goddamn _**clueless**_!"

"Well why are you so _**jealous**_ all the time?! I can't leave this tower without you breathing down my neck every five seconds!"

Tony growls at that comment. He hasn't tried that shit in months once he was firmly able to believe that Steve would never leave him for another person. The constant text messages have stopped, as well as stalking him with the GPS to know where Steve would go at night. Tony thought that Steve had noticed his progress, but obviously he was wrong. However, his blue eyes are glazed over with guilt and dishonesty; Steve knows he's lying to himself.

"You know damn well that that isn't true Steve. Don't even try to deny it." They both stare at each other, furious and red in the neck. Tony has the counter in a white knuckled grip, ready to fall over at any second.

"You." He whips his head around to Bucky, the source of their problem, who is standing conveniently by the elevator in case of a needed quick escape. "What do you have to say about this?" He winces at the not-so-awesome turn this whole conversation this is going in.

Bucky swallows thickly and leans against the wall a bit more. The man's deathly calm voice sends shivers down his spine. And not just his voice, but his overall appearance; Steve's friend is dressed in tight, black skinny jeans paired with a white long-sleeved sweater and navy blue blazer. His shoes are shiny and leathery. "Look, I'm not going to give any excuses. I can't explain anything." He raises his voice quickly before Tony interrupts. "But all I can say, is that I _never knew_ you and Steve were together. He's never mentioned you before." The room falls silent, Tony's ragged breathing pointing out how much this is taking out of him. The billionaire exhales, defeated, and leans against the counter to his elbows, shoulders locking up and head drooping toward the floor.

"Get out." he whispers.

Steve turns toward the elevator, intent on making his departure now that Tony has kicked him out, but is stopped abruptly when his assumption is shot down. Bucky gives him an awkward smile and slips out of the kitchen.

Tony is practically swaying on his feet at this point, an empty feeling in his stomach. He hasn't slept or eaten properly since Steve left, leaving him weakened by exertion. Steve still stands by the table awkwardly, expecting Tony to lash out at him, throw things, to take a shot of whiskey and call it a night. But none of this happens(to his surprise). In fact, Tony handles their predicament with maturity. "Look, Steve. This has blown _way_ out of proportion."

"I know." he agrees. He isn't expecting the next question to fall out of Tony's mouth.

"Why? Why did it get like this? Do you not- do you not want me anymore? Is that it? Because I don't know what I did to make you ditch me for over three weeks." The last bit of his speech is blurred between the lines, barely revealing the hurt in his voice...the abandonment. "I miss you Steve." he finishes.

Steve takes a long breath. He thinks things over for a few moments, from the day Bucky texted him, to this moment in time. His memories are filled with nothing but happiness and excitement, leading up to a frustrating blank. "I don't know Tony. It wasn't you at all, I'm sure but--" Realization dawns on the ex veteran like a bright light at the end of the tunnel. "I was exited to see Bucky again. I wanted to make up for lost time so badly that nothing else mattered and I just wanted to be near him. To be with him."

"So in all of this excitement, you couldn't even tell him about our relationship?"

"It slipped my mind."

" _How_ _?_ "

 Tired eyes meet Steve's shiny ones, exposing _something_ , some sort of truth, before disappearing again. "I don't know." He gestures his hands helplessly.

"Steve. Do you know how irritating it is, when someone else tries to touch you? Do you know how _irritating_ it is, when you disappear without saying anything to anyone? Do you know how _**goddamn irritating**_ it is to know that you could give one less fuck about how those two things affect me?" Tony is in his partner's face now, tears stinging his eyes. He isn't jealous, he isn't mad.

Disappointed would be the best word.

"You're mad because I didn't tell Bucky about our relationship because it feels like I'm being unfaithful to you?"

"Not mad, Steve. Disappointed. We put so much work into this relationship, building up our fort with cement and stone. But now it's like a deck of cards. All it took was one person to make you forget about me for weeks and completely blow it down. You only came back home when I told you to." he hisses. Steve's mouth is stuck in a gaping expression; guilt is peeling his skin back and leaving it raw.

"Oh, Tony. God I'm such an idiot." Steve sighs and attempts to reel his lover back in for an apology hug, but his wish gets the short end of the stick; Tony keep an arms width of space between the two, only allowing some comfort from his blondie because he hasn't been touched in forever. He's still mad though, definitely, and plans on Steve sleeping far away from him tonight.

"And clueless. And an asshole." Tony mutters. He rubs his neck, his eyes drifting closed at the small massage, and leans away from Steve. "Jarvis. Cancel our plans for the night."

"Are you sure Sir? It starts in the next hour...."

"Yes. Cancel it."

"Right away, Sir." Steve stares at Tony curiously. His lips part slightly, a question of the tip of his tongue.

"Stargazing. Cheesy picnic." the genius answers curtly. "Not tonight."

"Tony I'm sorry."

"I know." While Steve was distracted just a moment ago, Tony's lean body made its way past the kitchen, down the hall. He's tired and needs a good sleep, wanting to chase everything away with dreams of being wrapped up in Steve's arms all day long with no other plans. No work, no annoying calls, no _Bucky_. Just him and his lover.

Too bad that won't happen for a while.

Back in his place in the kitchen, Steve hugs his torso self consciously. Tony won't forgive him for a while and he definitely understands his logic, but he can't help but want to embrace his lover till the day's end in apology. But in the meantime, all he can do is wait.

**End**

 

 

,


	11. Stray From Main(Stream)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short dedicated to novelsandcoffee who I promised a dance fic, but never got around to (sorry). She is currently writing a story called "Someone Else", which also features a female dancer, and the plot is absolutely amazing! So go read it now before you miss out.
> 
> Another note, I have absolutely no idea how to input accents, so most of the vocabulary will look plain. Keep in mind that this is 100% choreography and experience taken from my dance world, and that nothing has been copied from some cheesy dance magazine website looking for subscribers. I respect ballet and many other styles, so I hope you will appreciate the time I have put into this. 
> 
> That's all I have to say.
> 
> Enjoy!

Hannibal cringes, narrowing his eyes at the poorly trained dancers gliding freely over sprung floors. He watches as they struggle to keep up with the music, a person or two forgetting the choreography every few counts.

He takes them all in, critiques them, judges their every movement; from pas de chats to sissonnes and pique tourne. Not only are they lacking grace, it is like all spirit and devotion to this particular sport has been sucked dry from their souls. _The pressure is starting to take effect_ , he concludes. As the last eight-count comes to a finish, Hannibal prepares himself among his group of male dancers.

**( _Clink_! The staccato of a piano signals their beginning.)**

He gathers his confidence and passion into the depths of his heart-

and lets it explode into glorious stars among the judges.

He dances, just as he was always meant to, just as he always wanted. Hannibal transitions effortlessly into petite allegro, gathering surplus energy stored only for the this moment and jumps his way through every combination taught. Pas de bourees are no feat for him, neither are assembles or changement; years of training and patience and honing his powerful mind have prepared him for the difficulties that may come. Nobody holds any importance to him, he can't afford to be worried about hurt feelings when the rookies don't get the job. Hannibal wants this. He wants to be here.

Hannibal catches a few director's gazes upon him, knowing full well why he has captured their attention. When push comes to shove, he must admit:

This audition feels far too easy.

So he exposes a little arrogance, but just barely. Behind him, he notices some of the other dancers start to keel over, trying to catch their breath and staunch burning muscles. He on the other hand, stands tall and unfazed. This audition is vigorous, it's fast and a challenge; the combinations are set in a strange order as well. Not to mention that having petite allegro right before adagio is something unheard of and very risky to the body. Hannibal wonders if the judges are trying to choose the better suit. Or suits, in this case, as two scholarship students will be selected.

* * *

 

As his group finishes up, Hannibal thanks the judges for their time (as a gentleman should) and exits left stage. Some beautiful ballerinas carry their grace to the opposite side; their pointes clumping like an overhead of thunder. For such beautiful shoes crafted of ribbon and sole, they make a lot of noise. Hannibal settles on resting his black shorts and tee clad body in the wings just to make a few potential notes. It is useful to observe other dancers to pick up additional clues as to how the judges react to certain movement; like the way ballerinas hold their core. Are they tilting their pelvis? Can they rise fully onto the pointe shoe box? As for the ballerinos, such as Hannibal, he wants to keep up with technique. Are they rolling through their feet? Are they giving enough plié in order to jump? This may sound boring, but when it comes to scholarships, paying attention is not a sin.

He waits about half an hour behind the black curtains before the company's accompanist finally packs up his endless supply of classical music into his messenger's bag.

"Alright everyone! Can I have all of you back on stage!" The lead director asserts. He is a tall, black man with a menacing growl and gap between his from teeth. "Faster!" he snaps. Hannibal suppresses his urge to laugh at the dancer's expressions. In the air he can smell fear, anxiety, blood, and pain. Not uncommon for most company auditions.

"When I call your number, please step forward." He holds a plain, white paper in front of his eyes and begins to recite each selection.

"3, 24, 18, 26, 32, 40, 47, 50, 52, and 10." Hannibal steps proudly downstage where the director lay. In the corner of his eyes, he spots the dancers that previously caught his attention standing down the line. Half are females, the other part male.

"The rest of you, thank you for coming down. Please go pack up." That depressing aura that once clouded the stage dissipates little by little as a sea of unemployed dancers file off stage. When the theater goes quiet, Jack turns to him and his group of acceptations and says:

"Now for part two." He walks back and forth in front of the single file line of dancers, glaring at each one as he passes by. "The rest of this audition will consist of improvisation and creative movement. You will share one solo, separately, and we will analyze how well you put your body to use. If you read the audition description, you would have seen that no music will be provided or allowed while performing your solo."

"Not only will we judge you on technique and creativity, we want to see how well you perform without the aid of normal components of dance. In this case, the excluded component is music. There are no counts, ticks, or beats to guide you. It's all," Jack taps his temple, "up here."

"That's all you need to know, if you didn't already." Hannibal didn't. "Any questions?" He and his group stay silent. Everyone is ready. Everyone is prepared.

"Okay. Line up in windows. When the music plays then...well you already know. Try not to hurt yourself or anyone else. Go full out, you've made it this far." Finally done with his motivation speech, the director leads himself offstage and sits at a plastic table decorated with a small, flexible lamp with other judges. He queues the technician-

and the music begins.

Modern and contemporary dance do not appeal to Hannibal very much, but he has taken the time to train in the two styles anyway. Modern dance is very underappreciated in the dance world and is always taken for granted. It is not a style you can just learn, no, it needs to connect with your body and soul in order to project the full picture. The same could be said for contemporary, but it is obviously a style of its own. No need to compare.

And so, Hannibal takes it in his hands to show the judges what this audition means for him through those styles. His movements are sharp and steady, keeping up with ballet technique but remembering to relax his neck, shoulders, head, and spine. He performs a marvelous inversion, transitioning himself onto the floor in fourth position. The biting sting of the noir stage burns his feet like hot coals. Hannibal is sure he will find many floor burns tonight.

The music is instrumental, not uncommon, and is definitely excelling as far as keeping Hannibal on his toes. The counts range from 3/4 to 6/8, or 4/4 to 8/16. With so many shifts in tempo and dynamic, perfect range of motion is nearly impossible. You can't mix pirouettes with techno; you can't mix sissonnes with waltz.

As the music comes to a close and Hannibal turns circles around other dancers, he sharpens his focus on the judges, keeping watch on every single person like a snake hissing a lullaby and trapping its prey. He stops, posing, as the music cuts off, and exits stage left when they give an all-clear sign.

Backstage, Hannibal nods in respect to the other performers at their commitment. However, one person seems to have evacuated their small group. Hannibal recalls the numbers the director called out and notices that dancer #3 has gone missing. Strange, Hannibal remembers seeing him on stage just now.

Before he can make any assumptions, the director calls them back. He asks for volunteers to go first for the solo section; Hannibal is interrupted once again as he raises his hand, another stealing his moment of triumph.

"Number three. Okay, you're up first." Jack announces.

A beautiful, pale skinned man about the same height as Hannibal, with short, curly hair colored brown steps up from the line. His eyes, though Hannibal cannot see them, glint in the pale spotlight. His body is a beautiful build, wrapped skin-tight in a white shirt and black tights.

Simply,

Beautiful.

Hannibal finds himself staring more than watching the marvelous number three as they back into the wings. He announces that his solo is a modern piece and prepares himself backstage.

Right. Next. To. Hannibal.

The man takes off, running across stage with fervor. Residue rosin billows like mist around him, cloaking number three in a beautiful shadow of white. He tumbles on his knees and falls to the floor, rolling onto his back. From there, Hannibal automatically knows that this man will be accepted; his movement consists of pure instinct, like a wild animal. He twitches his hands, cranes his neck, directing his ocean-blue eyes onto everyone and everything-

and leaps.

Number three leaps and sores so high that even Hannibal believes he is watching an illusionist's work. Graceful turns, long and muscular thighs supporting his weight in a series of second turns; his technique is never once displaced.

And then-

Hannibal feels as if he might cry-

The most gorgeous stag leap he has every laid eyes on.

It is like number three's torso is so flexible that he can mimic that of a deer-in-the-headlights image. His legs are beautifully tucked at his waist, bent as flat as a tabletop. As number three lands softly, he performs one last pirouette and bows the judges. The stage is nothing but silent as he departs.

"Next." Jack barks. Hannibal briskly walks back on stage before anyone else.

"I will be performing a modern-ballet solo." Hannibal announces. He allows the judges to write down a few notes before turning his back to the 'audience'.

Immediately, he pictures himself back at home in Lithuania out in the endless, grassy fields. There is no sound, just a gentle breeze that caresses his naked flesh. As the wind sways him, Hannibal performs his first movement; a simple twist of the wrists. He sweeps his hand over-head, painting an imaginary rainbow of complex rubies, lilacs, and sunset oranges. He pivots on two feet, twisting his back and combres with a perfect arch.

Then, as slow as a sloth, Hannibal guides himself to the floor, still arching, and plants his heels firmly into the ground. From there his performance picks up the pace. In Hannibal's mind palace, he paints an imaginary enemy; a large raven stag with razor edge antlers and feathers. The beast comes charging at him. Hannibal dodges, rolling away on his side and jumping onto his feet.

He continues on, charging at the beast in a series of glissades, kicking the stag in its jaw with a sissonne. Hannibal chasses into a tour jete, effortlessly dodging the beast as it snaps at him with its teeth. Too bad for the stag, he has left himself open for another attack. Hannibal doesn't waste a second; he prepares for foutes, planting his feet in fourth position and stabbing the animal in its ribcage while opening into second. His arms join in the assault as he returns to passé, slamming the stag with his fists.

Foute after foute, the beast finally drops to the ground; it whines pitifully. It melts into the grass in a puddle of inky black blood. Hannibal's palace returns to its serene aura once again. To celebrate his victory of ridding the beast, Hannibal continues his dance in freestyle, rolling in the grass, scrunching piles of soil into his hands, praising the endlessly blue sky. He sways and swings, slides and jumps, reaching toward the heavens.

Finally, as he grows satisfied with his world, Hannibal sinks to his knees-

and smiles.

* * *

 

Stage lights burn his eyes, he can feel his knees smoking and covered in tender sores. Returning back to reality, Hannibal stands to take his bow and allows the judges time to make note of their observations. All of them have content smiles on their face, even the domineering director who once had a snarl on his lips. Jack nods his head at Hannibal, dismissing him.

From the wings, number three stares in awe at number ten. His performance was...

Surreal? Deliciously realistic? Raw? Powerful?

Any of those could work, but don't seem to describe it enough. He spares a glance toward number ten, not bothering to hide his adoration for the dancer. Hannibal nods in return and loiters next to him for the time being.

"Will Graham." he introduces.

"Hannibal Lecter." Will quirks an eyebrow at the strangely fitting name.

"You have very interesting choreography."

Hannibal hears no mocking in his words. "Most of my work reflects off of my mind palace."

"What did you see? In your mind palace, I mean."

"A beast."

Will considers that for a moment, final pieces clicking into place. To have such creativity means that Hannibal must obtain a very mature mind. His foutes were absolutely perfect and gorgeous; he could see every muscle clenched into place.

"The stag." Snapping his attention away from analysis, Will stares in confusion at Hannibal. He averts his eyes away quickly.

"The stag leap that you did was absolutely marvelous." Hannibal praises. He steps closer to Will. "You looked wild, beastly. It was like you were depending solely on survival instinct."

Will isn't sure how to respond. "Where did you train to obtain such skill?"

"A theater in Harlem, New York. I studied at Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater."

"Quite a mouthful."

"Quite." Will agrees. He rubs at his eyes, accidently swooping under as if his glasses were still there. "And you?"

"I have trained at American Ballet Theater for many years. I was hoping for this place to be my new beginning."

"Was?"

"Well, with all of this competition, I'm not sure I will be accepted."

Will scoffs, "Trust me. You'll get a scholarship."

"And you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you believe you will succeed?" Will doesn't answer his question. Sweat is pouring like a stream down his face and neck.

"So what made you chose this company?" The curly haired dancer sways on his feet a little. He lowers himself to the ground to retrieve some water.

"This place is very culturally grounded. I believe this is a far better home for me."

Home. Not 'place'. Not 'company'. Home. Will nods his head in understanding. "The same goes for me. Too many dance companies nowadays are really...mainstream. It's always The Nutcracker or Firebird or Swan Lake. But this place, there's some sort of rustic charm about it."

"I agree."

The two dancers continue chatting after that, solacing in each other's company. They talk about annoying misconceptions in the dance world that are fizzling the spirit out of other performers. It's sad, really, how many people have stereotyped dance as an full time anorexic lifestyle.

* * *

 

Jack calls everyone on stage for the final time. Everybody stands patiently, awaiting their final judgement.

"Before I call out your numbers, please know that every one of you is exceptionally talented. All of you are special, and I'm sure you have reasons for being here. However, there are only two spots open for this company. We will be sure to write a letter of recommendation to your second choice school to give you an even better chance at finding the right home for you." The director pauses to let his words sink in a moment.

"Numbers three and ten. Please step forward." Inside his ribcage, Hannibal's heart flutters sporadically. He steps forward, side by side with Will and swallows back his giddiness.

"The rest of you are excused. Thank you for your time." Solemnly, the other eight dancers exit stage. A few have tears streaming down their face, others swallowing their pride and painting a blank mask.

"Congratulations Will and Hannibal! You are now scholarship students of Le Theatre du Culture. Your dorm rooms and schedules will be given to you tomorrow morning, or if you prefer, right now."

"If I may ask what time it is..."

"Just a little after 3:30."

"Then I would like to move in as soon as possible. Thank you."

"Will?"

The ballerino jumps slightly. He runs his hand through thick curls, trying to soothe a growing migraine. "Today is fine with me. Thank you so much."

"My pleasure. Go home and rest a little bit. Call us when you're ready and we'll have someone ready to pick you up." Just as Jack walks away, Will speaks up. This question has been nagging him for a while.

"...What made you choose us?"

The director smirks and says, "Neither of you were prepared." He disappears upstage, packing up his papers and exiting the auditorium.

"How the Hell..." Will mutters. "You didn't choreograph an actual solo did you?"

"No. I am assuming neither did you."

"Nope." Will sighs. He begins to laugh at the irony of it all. "I guess the rumors were true. He really does know everything." Hannibal and Will grab their bags from the wings and exit the auditorium as well. Hannibal sprays on a fair amount of dry deodorant, before sipping at his bottled water.

"Not everything." he finally answers.


	12. Blood and Feather Will Beat the Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a Supernatural fiction in an alternate universe, where Dean was born and raised as an angle. 
> 
> Warning: Graphic detail
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

> "If you look up, what do you see? Beyond the layer of white and blue, that is. Many will answer that they see nothing, and that it is impossible to draw any other conclusions because our sight is, in fact, limited. But others, they will answer with longing and hope, "Another world is above us.""
> 
>                                                                                              -My atheist experience

* * *

 

Dean is tired. Fairly so.

His wings are sore, his vessel isn't exactly in the best shape, and people are _really_ starting to make him mad. Like, 'If I were allowed to cuss your head off I wouldn't hesitate' mad. He's been feeling this way lately with no other way to explain it or express what's going on in his head because...well just because. Dean can't afford to 'bitch and moan' as the humans say. There's work to do, always, and it's rare that Dean even gets more than a day's worth of rest. Whether it be ushering souls from the Gates or looking down from where he stands, as long as Dean remains here, Heaven will continue to run smoothly.

Not that they don't need God, of course they need Him! But Dean's just saying--

Um.

What _was_ he saying?

"You need some sleep Dean." he sighs. The children before him screech and whine and banter, some falling off of swing sets and others riding down the slide in doubles. He wonders if this is normal human behavior and how they manage not to mark up their bodies despite plundering to their death on the monkey bars every second. The parents don't seem worried though, Dean notes. The majority of the crowd are women (blonde, brunette, tan, pale) and are in relaxed positions sitting at park bungalows.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" A short lady with stocky muscles and long black hair gasps in apology. She picks up her stroller (it must have been at least ten pounds) from Dean's crushed foot to relieve the pressure, and sets it aside the bench he sits on. Dean can see a baby flailing about at the activity, whining in protest.

He smiles charmingly and sits up straighter, letting his palms slide up his jean clad thighs. "It's fine. Accidents happen."

"But--Are you sure? This thing is pretty heavy."

"Look--" Dean holds up his foot and wiggles it around some, "Still works." The lady just smiles, still looking embarrassed. To Dean's satisfaction, she nods and continues on as if nothing happened.

From then on Dean just sits and watches the kids play. He sits there for hours, posture erect, offering a smile to anyone who passes by, and hopes that he doesn't look like a...a...what do they say? Oh, pervert! Yeah, Dean hopes that he won't have to evacuate the area just for being polite. Still, humans are unpredictable. Anything could happen.

Around evening though, just as the sun sets, Dean grows impatient. There hasn't been any work for him to do all day. Nobody has called for him, there are no prayers he can answer, not even a cat stuck in a tree. So pretty much, he's wasted an entire day doing nothing.

_Wonderful. How's that gonna look to the big guy?_

"Not pretty." Dean answers. Sitting has made his bones stiff and now the need to stretch them out is tempting. So he calls it a day and rises from the bench, hearing joints pop (everywhere) as he stands to full height. Even though the park is void of humans, he gives on last hopeful glance before clenching his jaw in frustration, and flying out of there.

He instantly regrets it.

Dean lands none too gracefully in his chambers, falling to his knees and gasping for breath. His wings lay on his back like the weight of Heaven, sore in all the right places and twitching from time to time. He can literally _feel_ them pulsing from root to tip, giving him a strange lightheaded feeling that he's never had before. He grimaces and twists his head around to view the damage, but finds nothing there. His wings look completely normal.

"Yeah." the angel concludes. "Sleep is good."

* * *

 

"Dean." Castiel acknowledges. The younger angel startles in front of him. He turns around with a smile and strides toward Castiel eagerly. A firm squeeze of the upper bicep is how they greet; always has been, for public discretion.

"Hey, Cas." The angel's shoulders relax at the endearing 'nickname'. Castiel takes a good, long look at Dean. The smile once curling his lips, upturn into a frown.

"You haven't been taking care of yourself."

"There's no time for that."

"Dean, we've been over this."

"You don't even know what's going on with me!"

"I do!" Several people give them curious glances in the café, poking their heads from behind booths and turning attention away from cell phones. Castiel  gives them an apologetic smile, then sends Dean a look saying, 'Let's go'.

"Dean, no one is disappointed in you." Castiel reminds once they've exited the café.

"Not yet."

"With the way you're working, I highly doubt--"

"Can't I just serve in peace? Is it a crime?" 

"You're _not_ bulletproof Dean. Look at you!" Castiel stops in front of the entrance to gesture at Dean's haggard appearance, to the younger man's annoyance. The wind whips at Cas' gelled hair, unsticking a few strands from the adhesive. Dean has an irritating urge to put them back.

"Well technically-"

" **No**."  Castiel wonders if Dean will cease to be stubborn one day, and if he can skip to that moment in time. With years more experience on him, Castiel knows what happens after an angel starts taking advantage of their vessel.

A perfect example to give would be Dean,  whose blue jeans are stained with dirt and ripped at the knees, black tee shirt wrinkled, and snug hunter's jacket missing. Not to mention the obvious bruising underneath his eyes and occasional tick of the jaw that he does whenever he's tired. Castiel says as much.

"I really don't need this. Look, can we just go home? I think we're pissing people off anyway." They step out of the way again as someone steps out the door, bell chiming in goodbye. Dean brings a shaky hand to Cas' and looks up with pleading eyes.

He sighs and nods, leading them away into an alley and making sure they aren't seen, before pushing Dean against the wall to place a kiss on his lips. Dean hums, allowing his eyes to droop shut. He closes and sucks against Cas' lower lip whenever they lock, causing a quiet _smack_ to sound as they pull apart. Castiel cups the younger angel's cheek, ignoring the rough stubble; Dean leans into it  gratefully. He places a hand around the back of Cas' neck in return.

 _Damn_.  Dean pulls apart a little breathless; he smirks at Cas' spontaneous behavior and chuckles when the other blushes. It's rare that they ever get to be intimate, mainly because he's always working, but the other part being pretty obvious; if they could have sex, chances are that Dean would have persuaded Castiel into doing it a while ago. But with so many important people (or person) watching, Dean feels it's best to keep things professional. Kissing is an earned indulgence; between both parties.

Castiel, on the other hand, loves to be physical. Any type of touching is exotic and exciting to him and he always craves more when it comes to Dean. But despite the temptation, his lover's morals are owed the respect they deserve. This doesn't mean that they can't do other things however, and Castiel is hoping that Dean is willing to play some more tonight.

He speaks up before Dean does. "Let's go home. I want to take care of you." in that low growl he knows Dean loves.

The sandy wall of brick rubs Dean's wings the wrong way as Cas pushes him back further, blue eyes blazing with obvious--but muted--distress. He can practically feel Cas' persistence through the heaviness of his free hand, pressing on Dean's chest with more force each second.  He bites back a hiss; the soreness from last night has come back, something Dean hasn't noticed until now, and he is growing even more nervous than he was before. Castiel is good at reading through pain and Dean is bad at hiding it.

He gives way to the pressure a while longer, a small sliver of hope that his partner will ease up some. But he isn't, and the pain is getting worse.

"Okay." Dean exhales. "Okay." But Castiel continues to stare him down anyway. He thinks the older angel is about to close the distance again, by the twitching of his pink lips, but notices how Cas' eyes move back and forth, like he's reading a book. Dean reacts too late--

Before he can explain, they are both in Castiel's chamber within seconds.

While Dean is shaking in fear, Castiel is feeling nothing but rage as he tackles Dean onto the wooden table; he pins the younger angel down with a single forearm, and shuts him up with a glare to stop his protesting. The shirt is ripped from his torso and discarded uselessly to the floor. Castiel nearly looses his grip on Dean at what he sees, figuring that this is why he's yelling 'Stop!' in foreboding.

His wings are....

Castiel swallows in disgust. He clenches his jaw and tries to get his breathing under control, only kneeling in front of Dean once he's calm. The younger angel nearly bolts at that moment during the time his grip loosens, but growls in frustration; Castiel is going to freak.

"Dean."

\--or, already is.

"This has gone too far!"

"I can explain this."

"I don't want you to explain, I just want to know why you let it get this bad. How long have you been in pain?" The feathers on his wings are sticking up in odd places, some lodged in spaces where they shouldn't be and causing some others to bend at an awkward angle from the intrusion. From root to tip, they are grey and fringed on the edges, and to add on, feel as dry as Raphael's humor. In short, Dean's wings look a hot mess.

And they feel like crap too, as he kindly noted earlier.

Dean winces when Castiel presses on an especially sore spot, but covers it up with a smirk to feign nonchalance.  In truth, he feels a little lightheaded, and definitely nauseous. Add this to the fact that he has been denying his vessel food and nutrient, the lack of sleep, and overbearing stress, Dean feels like absolute dog shit. (Excuse his French.)

"I didn't notice." Oops, shouldn't have said that.

"Dean are you serious? Have you looked at yourself lately?!" Castiel is starting to get emotional, the white of his eyes stinging  and voice growing weaker and more exasperated the longer they argue. He can barely keep his eyes on Dean's wings for too long, their horrible appearance sending chills down his spine. They look worse than Dean has led them on to be.

"Look, Cas, they don't feel that--Ah! Damn it!" He bangs his forehead on the wooden table top harshly and cries out in pain. "Okay, okay. So they're a little ugly."

"Dean." Cas cries. "There's blood in your wings."

The younger angel draws a sharp breath, bones locking into place in terror. He wheezes painfully and flinches back from Castiel's touch. Dean finally gets released from his grasp, giving him the perfect opportunity to turn his head around and get a good look. Meanwhile Castiel gives Dean space with a drawn expression, allowing him to observe his mistake for the (aforementioned) first time.

Dean cringes; Castiel is definitely on to something, and his wings are rightly accused of needing a good preening. But there's no blood, at least on the outside. He shifts through his feathers carefully, finding specks of red every now and then; what he finds at the base has him dropping to his knees and vomiting up all the caffeine he consumed earlier.

The attached skin of his vessel is bruised purple and green, some roots where the wings have grown in have several more barbs than there are supposed to be growing in the same place. This horrible mutation has led to the skin stretching past capacity and ripping open, causing blood to trickle from the openings in streams and getting caked into the feathers. The less recently bruised skin is layered in puss, oozing and mixing disgustingly with his blood. The lack of blood flow has probably led to the feathers greying, most likely their dryness as well.

"That's disgusting." Dean moans, as he continues to retch pitifully on the floor of Cas' bedroom.

"Very. Good job screwing yourself up, kid." Balthazar chimes. "You weren't kidding Cas, they look horrible."

The eldest angel keeps his distance beside Castiel, who has turned his back to Dean and is now looking at the plain, white wall. Castiel fumes, absolutely furious, and braces himself for the cleanup to come.

"Can you help him or not?" he growls.

Balthazar only shrugs. "Sure, if you hold him down."

"Hold me down for what?" Dean has finished puking everywhere, and has cleaned up the scene with a snap of his fingers. Now absolutely exhausted and empty, he lay back on his palms and breathes deeply with closed eyes. Chances are, Castiel called Balthazar in as reinforcement, though he isn't sure what for. What he can say for sure, is that he doesn't want anyone to touch his wings. Dean wants to lick his wounds in private.

"Well, with how screwed up your wings are this is going to take more than one angle sweetheart." Balthazar shudders uncomfortably as he nears closer to Dean. "But what I'm curious about," Castiel meets his eyes from across the room, "Is why your grace hasn't cleaned this shit up earlier. Even if you haven't been grooming them properly, the feathers should have been falling out on their own."

"He hasn't been taking care of himself." Castiel supports. He wipes the tears from his eyes and briskly strides back to his lover, ignoring the spark in his heartbeat as he nears closer.

"Why the fuck not?" Balthazar demands. While Dean has his attention turned on Cas, he rakes his fingers gently through the feathers. Dean flinches and yelps on contact. "Yep, definitely fucked them up." he mutters.

"I'm not sharing my private life with you." Dean grits. Castiel gives him a disappointed look, causing the younger angel to look away solemly.

"Well," Balthazar sighs, "you two love birds can talk about each other's feelings when I'm done." He gestures to Castiel curtly, who immediately flips Dean on his front and straddles his waist. "For now though, just try not to puke again."

"Hey!" Dean shouts. He glares at Balthazar from the corner of his eye, "What are you doing? No, no! Don't touch me! Cas!" Something thick and white is shoved between his teeth while Dean hollers anxiously.

 "You brought this on yourself." they both say. Dean shakes his head, rejecting their sentence. He's been working hard, making his peers proud everyday and putting a smile on their normally expressionless faces. So what is a little neglect, if the angels around him accept Dean into their terse social circle. Shouldn't he be receiving some sort of reward or a pat on the back for trying instead of this?

So what is a little bruising beneath his eyes? It's not bothering Dean. Who cares if waking up is a little harder than usual? There's nothing the others can do.

Since he was born from God's hand, Dean has strived to be nothing short of perfect in His eyes. He found the need to _be_ perfect, in more ways than one.

Obviously his attempts weren't enough.

"Hold him down, Cas!" Balthazar growls, plucking each feather with precision. Dean is writhing and shaking and moaning beneath their weight; if he bothered to take care of this earlier, he wouldn't be in so much pain. And this is only the first wing.

Castiel concentrates all of his weight toward Dean's back and shoulders, where he has his seat resting. While Balthazar plucks grey feathers from their old home, Castiel reads Dean's thoughts for a more in depth explanation. He can't believe what he's hearing.

"You didn't tell me you were feeling that way." Castiel starts. Balthazar ignores their lover's quarrel, focusing on removing every grey feather within sight. "I didn't know you felt so--"

"Ghn!" Dean bucks beneath his grip, nearly cracking his skull against Balthazar. The eldest angel looks at Castiel furiously.

"I said a stronger grip." Blood is trickling from the tips of his fingers, some smudged on his wrists too. If Dean doesn't call down, this could become a game of Hit or Miss. Say that Balthazar accidentally plucks one of the newly grown feathers, some of the nerves could detach from his skin and cause even more damage, and definitely affect his flyting skills in the long run.

"Dean." The youngest angel groans into the gag, clenching his teeth on the fabric, his canines ripping holes into it. Castiel tries to get a good look at him, but Dean rotates his head, turning the other cheek. He isn't ready to pull out the white flag.

A painful scream rips its way through Dean's throat, shredding his abused vocal chords even further. He feels like his back is on fire, like for every feather that is plucked, a hot coal replaces its spot. He can't get a full breath in, can't breathe, can't think, just seeing stars before his very eyes. Dead doesn't realize that he has vomited through the gag again, his chin layered with sick and soaking through the cloth. He doesn't notice when Castiel snaps his fingers and replaces it with a new one.

"Dean." he calls again. "I'm going to give you some of my grace." Balthazar looks at him like he's just lost that perfect, good-natured brain of his. Castiel ignores his stare. "It might sting a little at first, but you'll feel better afterward."

"Woah! Woah! Hey, he can handle a little pain." Balthazar argues. Bloodied hands rest on Dean's shoulders.

"Obviously not. You forget, Balthazar, that he's younger than us. Technically these wings are still new."

"Well heads up, Cas, giving him a little grace won't drown out the pain. This is the equivalent of breaking someone's arm over and over again, you get that right? Grace is only going to make him sleepy, not comfortable."

Castiel grits his teeth because he knows it's true. "Well what do you suggest I do? Dean can't continue like this, he's gotten sick twice!"

"Not my problem. Dean has brought this on himself, and you know that." The two angels fix themselves in a stare down, muting out Dean's cries for the time being. Cas is the first to back down.

"I know." he sighs. "I don't want him to be in pain though."

Balthazar nods, getting back to work. He doesn't attempt to reassure Castiel or offer him comfort; in a way, this is him punishing both angles for getting him in this predicament. Castiel should have been checking on Dean more often, especially since he's so young, and, hello, his boyfriend. And Dean should have admitted that he needed help earlier.

Dumbasses.

"Your vocabulary is very colorful today."

"Oh, what? You heard that? Good. Learn something from it." Balthazar has broken through the first layer of damage, and can start administrating first aid to the bruising, bleeding, and....ewe. He snaps his fingers while Castiel pins Dean in silence, and summons thick gauze, alcohol wipes, tweezers, and oil that he has stored whenever his wings need a touch up. "This  _will not_ happen again, or you better not call me." he reminds. Dean surprises him by nodding. "Are you _sure_?" The eldest rubs an alcohol wipe along Dean's skin none too gently, satisfied by the small whimper of pain he makes.

If Dean weren't so tired, he would probably throw curses at Balthazar's ugly face right about now. Instead he screams again, then growls hopelessly, tears streaming down his face.

"Stop it." Castiel reprimands.

"He started it...."

Puss and blood soak the cloth through and through, leading Balthazar to throw one away every minute. The upper portion of Dean's wings are clean of any fluids now, leaving the middle and lower sections to finish. Now with the old feathers--a majority of them enveloped in chunks of flesh at the tips--removed and stacked in a disorderly pile next to him, Balthazar can see healthy, pink skin from his condescending view. The feathers are also white, and a little wet from the alcohol wipes. But otherwise, they're okay. "Looks like you're gonna be alright kid." he says.

Dean swallows, feeling another bout of bile rising up his throat. His left wing feels raw and exposed, the stinging bite of alcohol causing him to jerk brusquely. He can feel Balthazar's warm breath wherever the angle moves, up and down, left to right, of Dean's wings, causing shivers to wrack through his body. Castiel rubs his lower back soothingly, digging into the muscle with strong fingers. He doesn't care how intimate it looks, just wants Dean to feel sheltered.

This goes on for about an hour, with Balthazar plucking unnoticed grey feathers and then wiping down the skin with wipes to clear away fluids. He wraps Dean's left wing up from its arched top, all the way down, and back up again. Castiel suggests that Dean have a small break before moving on to the next one, insisting that he couldn't get away even if he wanted to. Not only is the poor angle tired, but with his wing bandaged up, no air circulation can get past the barrier of gauze. And he would be in too much pain to try anyway.

 Only begrudgingly did Balthazar agree, rising up from his hovered position above Dean.

* * *

 "Okay, well...that was disgusting. And I hope you both know that this going to cost you, and that this will never, ever," Balthazar emphasizes each negative, backing away from the couple toward the door, "happen again. Got it? Good." He disappears back to wherever he came from, the only objects proving his aid being extra gauze, wipes, and oil for Dean to use daily.

Castiel can barely thank him before his brother departs. He passes the message telepathically instead, smiling a bit at Balthazar's snarky response.

**_B: Quit thanking me and keep an eye on him. You owe me more oil by the way._ **

_C: Noted._

He puts his 'seriously concerned' face back on and returns attention back to Dean, who is drifting in and out of consciousness on Castiel's bed. The covers only rise up to the middle of his back to avoid irritating his wings even further and causing more discomfort. Although their vessels can't get cold, Castiel notices the shivers still plaguing Dean's body; it's probably from the lack of grace. Without a proper supply, simple tasks such as healing and flying could become an unwanted burden on the shoulders of an angel. The vessel can also become affected as well, physically, hence Dean's tiredness and irritability.

If the younger angel could learn to take care of himself more, Castiel is sure that he would be at peace with himself and their relationship. But this is not the case, and he has no doubt that Dean will have to adjust to needing rather than being needed, from now on.

Castiel situates himself next to the angel after putting the medical supplies away. He takes caution of Dean's wings, steering clear of them, trying to find a suitable position for him to lay in. Although his room is decorated with a king sized bed, with the size of their wings, being relaxed and comfortable requires some form of adjusting. For Dean, he is laying on his stomach with his wings spanned out at full length; he's probably comfortable in this position but Cas can't help but worry.

Eventually, he manages to secure a small space on the edge of the bed. He runs his fingers through Dean's short, brown hair, and tries to smile at his dopey expression.

Dean can hear Castiel talking to him, but the majority of his words resonate as hums and vibration in his ears. The weight of his wings cause him to sink into the sheets like stone and turn into putty at the mercy of Castiel's hands; the massage on his head helps some to dull the pain. "I love you Dean." Castiel coos, placing a chaste kiss on his sweaty brow.

"Sorry Cas." he slurs. And he truly is sorry, what with all the crap that he put him through. Dean owes Balthazar an apology too, but that will be given tomorrow, or whenever he decides to get up.

"I want to say it's okay Dean, but this really isn't. I don't want you to hurt for anybody else's sake, be it God or the other angels."

"Mhm." Dean whimpers. His lips upturn into a pout, unshed tears burning behind his eyelids.

"For now just rest. Take it easy for a while."

Dean grits his teeth as he moves his right wing so Castiel can maneuver underneath it. He doesn't regret the fiery hot pain that burns down his back, or Castiel's exasperated sigh. He can't be judged for wanting comfort.

"No, you can't be." Cas confirms. He snuggles closer to Dean, wings tucked snuggly at his back now. "So I'll gladly give it to you, as long as you need it."

                       

                                                                                                                                                                         **End**

 


	13. Request

 

**Do you guys have any requests for me? Any type of fiction (fan based or non)?**


	14. Ritardando Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ri·tar·dan·do  
> /ˌrētärˈdändō/  
> Music
> 
> adverb & adjective
> 
> adverb: ritardando; adjective: ritardando; adverb: ritard
> 
> 1\. (especially as a direction) with a gradual decrease of tempo.
> 
> noun
> 
> 1\. a gradual decrease in tempo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dedicated to @Evangeleen74, who requested a Destiel fanfic. This chapter will be the first out of two or three, depending on how my week goes.
> 
> Also, this is an alternate universe where all of the drama after Alistair has stopped, as well as the apocalypse. Dean, Sam, and occasionally Castiel are still hunting crazy monsters and stuff. (I hope that made sense)
> 
> Enjoy!

       "Hello Dean." With all of his time working alongside an angel and being familiar with his tricks, although enlightening, Dean has yet to be comfortable around his friend's behavior. A normal person, if they wanted to, could have actually _called_ to check up on him. But Castiel, the weirdo he is, prefers to use other methods that always leave the hunter jumping out of his skin.

 

       "Have you heard anything from Sam?" Dean covers up his flinch with a question, allowing his eyes to quickly glance toward Castiel before refocusing on the road again.

 

       The angel is silent for a few moments before speaking again, his tone prompting but his sentence emphasized. "Your brother was just on the phone with you, about one hour ago."

 

       "No he…."

 

_"…on my way to Oklahoma….A case in involving mirrors…need your help….Taff Motel…."_

 

       "Right." Dean loosens his grip on the steering wheel of his Impala, not realizing how tense he's gotten over the brief silence. He would be more concerned about the thought-stopping brain fart if Castiel's concerned gaze wasn't burning holes into his back. "Did you come to help out or something?"

 

       "I have some downtime." Castiel relaxes into the passenger's seat. Humans are prone to memory loss, he's heard; this is his first time witnessing the action. "Where is your destination?"

 

       "Uh, Taff Motel…Oklahoma. Sam said something about a case with mirrors." For some reason, only chunks of the overall picture can be recalled. Dean is certain that he and Sam have discussed this, face to face, details and all, but…. "Ugh, I'm too tired for this." He doesn't even remember where he's going, just that the car is moving--probably on the freeway--at nine P.M., feeling drunk as hell, and fueled with a sorry excuse for a Twinkie left half eaten and shoved in the glove compartment.

 

       Oh yeah, and then there's Cas, who is currently sitting as stiff as a board in Dean's impala--without a seatbelt--and wearing that same old, constipated look he has goin' on pretty much all day long. Dean isn't sure if the reason is because the angel is always thinking (of what, he doesn't know) or if the vessel he uses is chronically constipated all day long. Or maybe Castiel doesn't have full range of facial expressions yet, so his body settles for a crinkle in his brow, dull brown eyes, and lips stretched into a thin line. Yeah, probably the latter.

 

       Dean shakes his head, wondering why his mind is so intent on figuring out The Science of Cas, when he _should be_ trying to recall details of the case. A quick phone call to Sam could easily give him a quick recap of the situation, but his habitual stubbornness outlaws good decision making.

"Your body is in need of rest, Dean." Castiel focuses on the fellow hunter, taking note of his rough appearance; scruffy beard, bloodshot eyes, red nose, the bitter aftertaste of beer permeating Dean's car. "You look horrible."

 

       "Yeah? Thanks for the compliment."

 

       "Dean--"

 

       "Look, if you want to help, why don't you get me some food." A white, paper bag appears in Castiel's awaiting hands instantly. Dean takes one hand off the steering wheel to grab it from him, inhaling cheese and beefy goodness. He rechecks the freeway to make sure nothing but open road is still there, with no unfortunate twists or turns to take away free time for Dean to eat. The impala rides on, nice and smooth, just like he wants. Dean pulls out the beefy goodness eagerly, like he hasn't eaten in days, and silently thanks the angel for having it half-wrapped for his convenience. Halfway through eating the burger, Dean supposes he owes Cas an apology, you know, for acting all bitchy and stuff.

 

       He wipes his teeth clean of food before saying, "Look, I'm not in the best mood. I'm really tired, running on empty--and just--I'm sorry. Sorry." Okay, not the best apology considering it was stock full of excuses, but Dean is running on empty with a headache as big as Gabriel's ego. So excuse him for not being all puppies and dog treats. If that makes sense.

 

       Castiel is used to Dean's behavior though, the angel is always sympathetic, understanding, you could say. Dean has seen a lot things and experienced a lot of grief. If he's upset, there is always a reason. "Apology accepted. I take it Sammuel is still upset about--"

 

       "Yeah."

 

       "Ah." Castiel nods. "You two share a strong bond, unlike my brothers and I. You will be forgiven."

 

       "Sure, sure. I just can't stand the," Dean shoves a piece of pie in his mouth, moaning at the f-ing delicious taste of caramel and pecan, "that kicked puppy dog look he gets whenever he's upset. I don't even know how he does it, he just," a rough gulp, "does."

 

       Castiel hums. He has experienced Sammuel's 'kicked puppy dog' look, as Dean calls it. As an angel who goes day by day without cracking a smile or displaying any emotion whatsoever, Sammuel can make Cas feel guilty in the blink of an eye when he widens his eyes, pouting for all it's worth. The feeling is unnerving….

 

       "I'm pretty sure you know what it's like. I mean, you have like eight-thousand brothers--"

 

       "Rough estimate."

 

       "Whatever. So there's bound to be some tension once in a while, right?"

 

       "Yes. My brothers and I, we fight sometimes. Gabriel and his sense of 'humor' can go too far, Raphael is very closed minded, Balthazar is lenient--"

 

       Dean snorts. "And what? You're like, the most perfect angel of the group? That's a load of crap Cas."

 

       "Of course not. According to you and Sammuel, I am a 'stick in the mud'." He isn't sure what that means, but with all his experience with the Winchesters, Castiel can pick up the annoyance in their words and disappointed head shakes that could conclude as a playful insult.

 

       "Anyhow, it's just…" The pie is suddenly unappealing in its plastic, square container; Dean chucks back in the bag. "Being a big brother to Sam, there's a lot of responsibility you know? Having him disappointed in me is like--" God, he can't even get the words out. And why is he talking about this with Cas anyway?

 

       "Dean?"

 

       The hunter sighs tiredly, slowing his Impala to a safe 45 miles per hour. The road before him speeds on anyway like fast credits rolling down a screen; it has Dean dizzy and slightly nauseous. "Um. It's like, it's like seeing dad. You know, the 'eyes' and that, that… _disappointment_." Laughing wryly at the end of his sentence, Dean feels an oncoming urge to drink again all the way to Oklahoma; alcohol makes everything…fuzzy. Almost unrecognizable and easier to deal with. He forgets the whole point of their conversation and quits talking completely, grateful of the fact that Cas never pries where his nose doesn't belong. It's useful and gratifying, however messed up that sounds.

 

       "Will we be stopping at a motel soon?" Castiel changes subjects. He takes the bag from Dean's lap and discards it somewhere in the universe. "You look dead on your feet."

 

     "Again, thank you for the compliment. And yes, we're stopping. She needs a refill anyway."

 

       "I was not aware that inanimate objects could have a gender." Castiel looks at Dean curiously.

 

       "They don't. Some people just--it--I don't even know how to explain this."

 

       "We are seven miles from the nearest motel. I am sure that in this time some sort of conclusion will come to mind." Dean just tilts his head, a grimace on his features and slight apprehension.

 

       He switches on the radio. "Right."

* * *

 

       Just as promised, a medium class motel lay right off a sharp exit and complex--no stop light--intersection. Dean books a two bed because Cas insists on staying with him the whole night. Why, Dean has no clue. But the angel won't stop frowning at the alcohol and lack of actual food shoved in his bag.

 

       Castiel flies them into room number six--red flags everyone--once out of sight from the jolly old woman in the waiting room. Dean sways on his feet upon landing but Cas catches him before having a nice chat with the grainy, black carpet. He mutters his thanks and tosses the key out of sight out of mind, before dropping his duffel bag too and face planting onto the bed. Castiel just stares at Dean from his position by the door.

 

       "Go to sleep Cas." Dean slurs tiredly. The angel can be awkward sometimes, usually needing assistance with day to day human interaction. Usually it's Dean who helps him out, and, he's got to admit, pushing the angel in the right direction while it should be the other way around, is kind of…nice.

 

       But right now it's just plain annoying and he _desperately_ wants to sleep off this goddamn headache.

 

     Obligingly, Castiel walks gracefully from the door to his temporary bed and lay on top of the covers just like Dean; his body is stiff, straight, and exposing itself to the ceiling. The angel just lay there, listening in on Dean's light snoring muffled by the covers. He and the hunter have not spent quality time together in quite a while since spring, always being on Heaven's beck and call for maintenance. But as Castiel mentioned earlier, he has been let off the leash until further notice. And he has nothing better to do with his time than spend it with familiar people. More specifically, Dean.

 

       Dean: a brave and courageous hunter who has seen one too many deaths. A man who has shed liters upon liters of blood that is not his own, all for the sake of protecting those he loves. This is what Castiel admires about him and why his loyalty to the Winchesters will never be shaken in the future, so long as no one sabotages their relationship.

 

       Relationship.

 

       Castiel would like to have one with Dean. Exclusively. Long term. Forever.

 

       But Dean enjoys his time with busty, blonde and brunette women as far as his knowledge serves him. Castiel can only hope the odds are in his favor in the meantime. Because until then, Castiel will only offer his aid. He will let Dean come to him when the time is right.

 

       A choked gasp draws the angel's attention suddenly and he turns to look at Dean, who is beading sweat and flinching sporadically. Castiel remembers witnessing this before, remembers the same look of terror on Dean's face and not knowing what to do. But right now is different. Castiel is familiar enough with human behavior and their psychology to act out some sort of plan for certain situations.

 

       The angel slides off the twin bed, toward the right, and plants his feet in the space between mattresses being separated by a lamp and dresser. One or two moments of consideration later, Castiel is cupping Dean's cheeky lightly and ridding whatever demons plague his sleep. The effect is immediate and the hunter stops twitching, his brows no longer drawn together. Castiel is pleased to hear his heartbeat a steady pace is well.

 

       Just as he backs off to lay back down, Dean shoots up in the middle of a scream and holds his head like it might fall from his clutches. Whatever he was suffering earlier is back in less than one minute, and steadily getting worse. "Dean." Castiel calls. But the hunter seems oblivious to the angel. It's like Alistair is in his head again and wreaking havoc, shoving nails through his ears, acid in his eyes, pulling at each nerve so that he feels absolutely _everything_ he does just to make him suffer. The pain is so bad that Dean starts crying.

 

       Castiel grabs jean clad shoulders firmly, chanting his name once more. "Dean. Wake up."

 

       But the hunter _is_ awake, he's just in pain. Dean manages to crack his eyes open minutely but finds nothing except a blurred silhouette bathed in white light. He snaps them closed, blinded, trying to make the black behind his eyes stop distorting every which way. Dean forces his body to slump forward, causing Castiel to embrace all of his weight, and nudge his head into the crook of the angel's neck. Castiel furrows his brows, confused, until Dean grits out, "Use your damn powers." The angel doesn't bat an eye as he floods him with grace, sighing when Dean stops crying in pain. His ragged breathing is the only sound in the room.

 

       "I knew this room was bad luck."    


	15. Note

Hey guys, I'm sorry that the updates haven't been posted yet, I am still on vacation. Tomorrow is my last day though, so I'll be bacl home and drafting the new updates since I haven't done them yet. Unfortunately, this means that updates will be at least another (half) week late.

I'm sooorrrryyy!!!


	16. Ritardando Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still dedicated to @Evangeleen74

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, and I apologize very very much for not updating sooner. If you read my note, however, this would have been expected since I'm behind in updates. This leaves us with two options:
> 
> 1) one last, very long chapter that will summarize this short, but will take at least until Wednesday to complete  
> 2) short chapters posted periodically through the week, ending either on or before this Wednesday
> 
> Which would you like?

"You've gotta be kidding me."

 

"Aw balls. Really?"

 

"This is very…awkward."

 

"Okay. It's, it's too early for this. I'm going home."

 

**Two weeks earlier.**

 

Dean and Castiel have been on the road for only a few hours, and the angel is already starting to get on Dean's fairly frazzled nerves. He remembers--not very fondly--how Sam used to be the same way; bouncing in the seats, switching the radio station every few seconds, even sticking his shaggy head out the window to let his luscious locks whip with the current. To put it bluntly: Sam is hyper. Or, used to be, seeing as Stanford has smacked some air of responsibility into him. But it never quite crossed the hunter's mind that maybe angels, although pompous, are capable of making Dean want to drive himself and the Impala off a cliff and give him the same level of irritation he made sure to keep in check, once upon a time.

 

His eye twitches.

 

"Alright already! Look, can I get some quiet time please?" Dean interrupts, before Castiel can bring up a new topic. The two are about one more hour until they hit the nearest Oklahoma city limit, but still thirty extra minutes from the actual motel.

 

"Of course, Dean. I…apologize." The angel twiddles his thumbs nervously. He leans back into the seat, disregards the foul stench of manure and compost as endless acres of farmland speed by. "But…."

 

"Ugh, Jesus Christ." Dean's groans. If he hears about the bible _one more time_ ….

 

"How is your head?"

 

"Fine."

 

"What time is it?"

 

Dean spares a glance at his watch. "Eight."

 

"You didn't sleep much last night."

 

"Mmmm."

 

"Do you feel okay?"

 

"Sure."

 

"Dean--" Thank God they're somewhere deserted, otherwise Dean would have put people at risk; the Impala skids to a stop, rubber screeching curses and the hood dipping dangerously low to the ground. The hunter waits until his ears stop screaming bloody murder, ignoring Castiel's concerned questions for the time. He grips his hands along the steering wheel and says, "Get out. Fly, walk, run--I don't care. Get out Cas."

 

"I don't know where to go--"

 

"Flag my car then! _Just get out!_ " The hunter has no idea where the sudden aggressiveness has come from, but Castiel's constant nagging and poking and prodding…it's--it's--annoying. Very. Annoying.

 

Castiel sounds off with a flap of wings; Dean rides on.

* * *

 

 

"So you're saying that there's something here attracting all the monsters?"

 

"There must be. I mean, just look at the cases. Cows dropping dead, wolf attacks, people being in two places at once. This place is like a frickin' X Files hotspot." Dean holds up three fingers, highlighting the few examples.

 

"So what could it be?" Sam tips back his beer. "Do you think there's some sort of gate in the city? Because so far, it looks like these monsters are popping up out of nowhere. I mean, look at the map. Kayla Jane: drained of blood in her home, two fang marks penetrating her jugular. Morice Rit: savagely torn apart out in the woods, his best friend with a chunk of flesh missing from his calf. He said he heard howling around midnight and the next thing he knew, he was crawling back to their trailer with no sign of Morice catching up. And--Dude, you listening?"

 

"Huh?"

 

"You just spaced out on me." Sam peers cautiously at his older brother, who is currently staring at the map splayed before them, decorated in red flags and sticky notes, like he has no idea what the guide means. Like it's something he's never seen before. "Do you see something?" he asks anyway.

 

"Uh…" Black dots spreckle like ants invading pizza (mmm, pizza) and Dean is partially disoriented all of a sudden. He blinks his forest green eyes quickly at hope of batting them away, but they just spread instead. "No, I got… I got nothin'." Blue and red and yellow flash like strobe lights. Dean's heart grows a little colder, beats a smidge quicker.

 

He looks up, and Alistair replaces Sam's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, I wonder what all of these symptoms are leading up to. Nightmares, intense headaches, insomnia, hallucinations, loss of appetite....What did you get yourself into this time, Dean?
> 
> Let me know what you're thinking of in the comments!


	17. Ritardando Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapters it is, then.

From that point, everything flows in slow motion; Dean considers his options. The first one being--

 

Oh, fuck it.

 

"Woah!" Sam jerks back just as the eye of a gun suddenly connects with his forehead, Dean's useful gun clip disengaging the weapon without a fuss. Dean is suddenly breathing hard, fury curdling his blood, pupils dilating, a choked grip around the neck. He pulls the safety off the gun slowly, hesitant for some reason, although he has the perfect shot, a disgusting target. He can't say what's keeping him from pulling the trigger.

 

"Dean." Sam swallows, surrenders his palms slowly. "Dean, what are you doing?"

 

"How'd you get out?" They put Alistair's sorry ass back in Hell for sure, they saw the whole thing, saw the ground swallow him whole, felt the earth quake beneath their feet…. This shouldn't be possible.

 

"Now, Dean. Let's not get hasty. Why don't you put the gun down and we can talk mono y mono--"

 

" _Shut up! How did you get out?_ " Sam flinches back. What the Hell is Dean talking about? He licks his lips nervously and tries to keep his breathing calm. Is this how he'll die? By the hands of his own brother?

 

  _Cas, quit whatever you're doing right now. Get your ass back to the motel. Now._ A simple prayer is usually all it takes, but Sam stumbles over his words in his head, switching back and forth from answering Dean's questions and sending out a cry for help through telepathic messages he's not even sure the angel can hear. One second turns into two, two multiplying into four, the barrel of the gun quivering in a weakened grip, but still under enough pressure to leave a mark on Sam's forehead. Castiel should have arrived by now.

 

"I should kill you. I can kill you right now." Dean mutters hysterically. He remembers all the pain and suffering he went through under Alistair's hands. Being hooked and chained, gagged, beaten, stabbed then burned--he swallows back a surge of bile. _The safety is off. Just…just kill him._ But he's breathing hard. The gun slips between his shaky fingers more than once, the stubbed grips on the neck as lubricated as the inside of his swelling throat. Dean's limbs are trembling. "What are you doing to me?" _Why can't I shoot you?_

A swarm of black and white moths fly from Alistair's mouth, Dean swats at them helplessly as they nick and bite at his skin, like tiny drops of acid raining from all directions. "S-stop! Stop!"

 

"What? Cat got your tongue? I thought you were gonna kill me, Dean." A rather large moth lashes it's spiked tongue around his wrist occupying the gun; Dean drops it with a curse.

 

His hunter's knife is the next to be sheathed, but it gets knocked out of his hand. Dean drops to the ground amidst the moths just as Alistair sweeps his legs from underneath the hunter, sending him to the ground rather pathetically. The black and white moths blind him, nothing but black and white, bites and burns, a constant wave of claustrophobic mass that it leaves Dean gasping for breath.

 

Suddenly, everything goes red.

 

* * *

 

 

One week later, nobody has uttered a word about the incident, per a certain someone's request. Instead, Sam, Dean, and their faithful angel, Castiel, have continued to work on the case nonstop, pulling more and more clues about the mysterious monster murders plaguing Oklahoma City, deciding to ignore to two large bruises decorating Dean's check and chin where Castiel had manhandled him. They haven't faded, not yet; still tender and still raw. Sam takes the case files home, Dean marks them on the map, talking with Bobby over the phone. Castiel makes trips round the city to pick up supplies that they need, such as food and water or aspirin for Dean's increasing headaches. Eventually, even heavy duty sleeping syrup had to be purchased as well; he's been getting angrier, more irritable. Less hungry. Puking his guts up and then rejecting sustenance to replace the lost body fluids.

 

By midweek, Dean has lost ten pounds and his hunting jacket no longer fits snuggly over his shoulders. Sam says he should stay in the motel, let him and Bobby figure everything out while Castiel keeps him company. Surprisingly, the green eyed hunter stands down.

* * *

 

 

 


	18. Note

Just got home from a Panic! At The Disco concert. Ritardando P4 will go up tomorrow!


	19. Ritardando Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late update you guys, you definitely deserve more than I deliver toward you. But what can I say? Writer's block is a bitch. Well, that and also because a certain band (Panic! at the Disco) has been calling my name and whisked me off to one of their concerts. #NoRegrets
> 
> This is the second to last chapter of Ritardando now that I'm behind (again) and the final one will be uploaded tomorrow, which will finally summarize the whole ficlet. #DestielisComing
> 
> And finally, I sincerely apologize to @Evangeleen74 for dragging this out. Hopefully my writing hasn't disappointed you at least. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience, my little angels! (Just remember that you have a right to yell at me online so I can get my lazy ass out of bed and stop trying to read Hannigraham and brainstorm at the same time.)
> 
> Enjoy!

 

By Thursday, it's obvious that something is wrong with Dean.

 

"He has a fever. I tried cooling him down with some rags; he's almost above 99 degrees, which, I am sure, is dangerous to the human body--"

 

"Can't you just use your grace?" Sam tiredly interrupts.

 

"I am afraid that human ailments are not my specialty, Sam. You...humans, are very fragile." He lies. Castiel is very fond of Dean, practically admires him; but their relationship, although friendly, tends to strain now and then between the secrets and lies that they suffer from on a daily basis. Dean will never be comfortable expressing himself to anyone; Castiel  will never be trusted to take care of him when he needs to be taken care of. But even so, there's more to the story than just an angel fighting for attention: Castiel is no doctor, not a healer at all, despite what the Winchester's have told him. He hurts people, sacrificed over 50,000 humans for the lives of two boys, have killed his own kind; he has more blood on his hands than anyone else. Hands that should never touch those that he loves with kindness and compassion. The thought of hurting Dean when he is simply, 'just trying to help' is too heart wrenching to think of. Even so, Castiel's hidden expertise of the human body wouldn't help their predicament now. Last week, when Dean attacked Sam, Castiel had to resort to measures in knocking the hunter out, seeing as his grace wouldn't have any effect; he and Sam had to wrestle Dean to the ground, Castiel pulling two punches on him until his stubborn pain tolerance let up and Dean passed out. But the point is, what Dean experienced might have been psychological, never mind physical. Castiel can conclude that his hallucinations were so powerful that even Dean's hunting skills flew out the window, leading to him being tackled easily. And now, one week later, still brooding over the fact that Cas _hit Dean_ , the angel can't say that he has any suggestions. He has no experience treating mental ailments within the human body, nor is he fond of counseling or giving therapy.

 

Dean's pained face melts beneath the angel's gaze; he is a broken faucet, leaking sweat everywhere, even the itchy motel sheets. He and Sam sit side by side, silently, one person imitating a stiff board while the other straddles their seat. Castiel counts five breaths before Sam speaks up again. "So..." he clears his throat as it comes out shaky, "what....What do we do? Your grace, i-it didn't _work_ last time, or today. Dean's losing weight Cas, he's burning up, the nightmares came back. Bobby doesn't know what's wrong with him, we gave him medicine. It looks like Dean's--" Sam's breath hitches before he can speak the last word, his loathing temper of the idea sending him to backtrack and start over. "He's getting sicker and...it looks like there's no way to stop it."

 

"You forget that Dean is a fighter Sam. He will pull through." is what Castiel replies with, though his words come out hollow and hopeless. It's strange for him to be sitting at the deathbed of his best friend, useless and unable to help for the first time in a long time. The atmosphere practically smells like fever and it shows on Dean's sickly grey skin. If the situation goes South, he could die and then....and then what? Go to Hell again? No, no, Castiel can't have that! He can't stand the feeling of being useless when God practically created him to watch over the human world; although he was taught by other angels to never intervene with the insignificant beings below, Castiel shoved his nose in their business anyway. He watched and waited. He answered prayers. He slipped orphans and struggling mothers advice within their dreams of how they could fix problems and solve bad situations. So why is it now that the angel can't do anything? Why does Castiel hesitate when he knows the answer, can sense the solution to Dean dangling in front of his face?

 

Maybe...he's just scared.

 

_Is this what it felt like when they watched their father die?_

 

"Yeah." Sam breathes. He adjusts his brother's blanket with a shaky hand just below the chin; a memory of Dean in the hospital from the when the three of them were hit by a car replays for a moment, 'lifesaving' tubes shoved down his throat and a foreboding device to monitor his heartbeat. Sam retracts his hand like it's been burned before covering the action up by raking it through his hair instead; he hasn't cut it in two weeks. It's nearly to his shoulders now.

 

Castiel frowns, a furrow in his brow as he tries to transition from watching Dean, to Sam's sudden comment. He feels foolish as he realizes that his thoughts were spoken aloud. "I am sorry. I did not mean to...to say those words, it was very inconsiderate of me."

 

"No, no. It's fine. I mean...Dean and I, we were crushed when we found out that Dad died and we couldn't stop it. We...." But John Winchester's death shouldn't be compared to Dean's ( _Dean's not gonna die. He can't!_ ) because their dad had a reason for leaving. His brother does not; there is absolutely no reason why Dean should look like this, act like this, _be_ like this. "I just don't understand. How did he get sick in the first place? This isn't your typical fever, Cas. It's something else." Sam pauses a moment. Castiel gives him time to think.

 

"I noticed on the phone--three weeks ago--that Dean was acting different. I thought he was just tired or something, it didn't really raise any alarms in my head but...he sounded almost...distant? Um, tired....Disassociated! And then--and then last week, Dean and I were going over the case but he spaced out on me and the next thing I knew, he cocked a gun at my head, but, not the way he usually does it."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"He was _slow_ drawing his gun. And Dean is never slow, especially when he thinks there's a demon in the room. And then, the next part I already told you, we tackled him easily enough that it was like all his training and instinct went out the window." Sam is practically breathless after drawing all of this information. He's shaking his head and pacing from bed to window, both hands tucked in his pocket while ignoring Castiel's lost gaze on the hunter. Abruptly, he stops. Sam yanks his phone from the pocket of his jeans and dials a number. Castiel has no idea what he is thinking.

 

_"Y'hello!"_

 

"Bobby, hey. Have you got anything?"

 

On the other line, sitting at a termite bitten desk, overloaded with books and strays, sits the Winchester's immediate resource. He cradles the house phone between ear and shoulder as he looks through a book titled, _**The Supernatural and Undiagnosed Illnesses**_. His adopted boy chirps hopefully through the phone for an update, for progress, for a solution. Neither of these things which Bobby has. "How's your brother over there? Anything changed?"

 

_"Fine, and you dodged the question."_

 

Bobby tosses his baseball cap somewhere within the clutter; it's hot in the house. "Look, Sam, I'm no doctor but maybe Dean should be in a hospital after all, I mean....There doesn't seem to be anything supernatural at all about this--"

 

_"There **is,** Bobby! I can feel it. We just have to dig a little deeper."_

 

"Hey. I don't know what to tell ya."

 

_"He's practically dying Bobby, there has to be something."_

 

The man breathes for a moment before tossing the book as well. He sits back in his chair. "Not even Castiel's grace is workin'?" That sounds fishy, even to him. He's seen the angel kick ass and heal it too, practically replace chucks of missing flesh from mutilated bodies and make things appear out of thin air. And all of a sudden, he can't get rid of a fever?

 

_"No! Nothing's working."_

 

He supposes he could call a few resources, spread the word about what's happening within the Winchester's Brotherhood pact, but, Bobby would rather keep this between himself and the boys, otherwise, a shit ton of trouble could head in their direction. "Balls." he mutters. "Look, just keep an eye on Dean, I'll keep lookin'. But Sam--Sam." He waits until the hunter quits babbling nonsense. "If you see Death, kick some ass."

 

The line disconnects. Bobby goes back to researching.

* * *

 

 

Two days later, on Friday, Dean wakes up. Rather painfully, he should say. Horrendous cramping in his gut, a vicious headache, extremely chaffed throat, and achy limbs. He awoke slowly, like coming back from a deep sleep on a lazy Saturday morning after having the best sex of his life. His awakening is similar to all of those things, but Dean feels like he's gotten no sleep at all and is certain he didn't have sex, if the uninhabited pillow at his side means anything. You know why?

 

Because he was busy screaming his throat out in Hell.

* * *

 

 

Pushing through the disorientation and pain and forgetting what happened to get better become Dean's two main concerns now that he's woken up from dream (nightmare) land. Being sick for so long has left him weak, vulnerable, and strangely out of place. 

 

The weight comes back to him easily though, small meals at first and then bigger ones loaded with fruits and vegetables, wheat and diary, that have left the disgusting hollow of his stomach filled and full. Sam had brought the meals on trays three times a day, never missing a beat whenever he asked for a snack in between. Per Dean's request, they've even started working on the case again.

* * *

 

 

On Saturday, Castiel decides to stay in the room with Dean the entire day to help look over the case; the amount of murders have skyrocketed since he fell into a coma. "Bobby is meeting Sam at the city limit right now. He's booking a room at the motel. The more help, the better."

 

"So you two haven't found any connections? Are there any rogue angels that I should know about that have gotten their hands on powerful stuff?"

 

"No."

 

"Damn." Dean sighs. Unlike before, his mind is clear, focused, sharp; he sees the map and he sees the markers. No noticeable patterns. Then, of course, the victims; no relation to each other. The families are normal, no crazy psychos out to get them or a jealous aunt trying to get in anyone's pants. Not even the dogs look suspicious. Over 20 people have died, all random, some quicker than others, others cleaner. It's clear that these monsters are having one Hell of a frenzy, but....

 

"Dean."

 

"Hm?"

 

"...You're shaking."  The red, felt-tipped marker in his hand stabs the map in short, sporadic, movements; Dean lets it slip from his fingers to the table. His wrist is throbbing.

 

"What the Hell...." Three long, horizontal, red marks swell with a pulse. Castiel gapes at them in shock.

 

"Dean." he starts cautiously, "Have you been--"

 

"No." He traces them lightly with the tips of his fingers, instantly regretting it when a blinding white light flashes behind his eyes; it ignites a headache.

 

Castiel is up and kneeling beside him within the millisecond. He cradles Dean's cheek with one hand, a wrist in the other; a ticking time bomb thumps beneath his thumb as the angel counts down the seconds. Five, six, seven--at twelve, Dean's jerky twitches die down into nothing. The whites of his eyes fall back into proper place.

 

"What are you starin' at?" Dean slurs, slapping away the angel's prodding hands. He swallows thickly once, twice, before he's absolutely certain that he won't vomit everywhere.

 

"You--" Dean takes care to completely ignore Castiel's concerned look as he retrieves his phone from the table, answering Sam's call with a _beep._

 

" _We got something. Meet us  at the park near Walgreens._ "

 

Dean hangs up with an affirmative grunt. Finally, after not having absolutely any leads, it looks like Sam and Bobby have finally picked up on something. How, he isn't concerned with that now. All Dean knows is 'where' and 'when' and 'when' is right now. "We gotta go. Sam has a lead."

 

Castiel rises up the same time Dean snatches his gun from the table, two hunting knives, their spell book, and finally, his hunting jacket. Putting the items on replenishes the fire in Dean's blood, a refreshing boost from his mood prior to collapsing and getting sick. Going outside is exactly what he needs to stretch the kinks from his body; nothin' like fresh air and daisies, right?

 

"Where to?" the angel asks once Dean is settled. The hunter latches onto his coat sleeve, speaks the vague coordinates of their destination. It takes one minute before Castiel places Sam and Bobby's accurate location.

* * *

 

**Now....**

 

 "You've gotta be kidding me."

 

"Aw balls. Really?"

 

"This is very…awkward."

 

"Okay. It's, it's too early for this. I'm going home."

 

So, it turns out that the mysterious 'monster' murders were actually _crazypsychoticdelusionalsickdisgusting **human**_ murders.

 

A human killed all those people.

 

But you see, that's not even the crazy part. The crazy part, which had everyone blanche and groan, was catching the guy in his shady ass trailer, getting ready to dress up in a full blown werewolf suit, equipped with real fangs, real dog paws, and real wolf fur. The sewing machine, which he probably used to sew everything together, sits posh-ly on the bedside table. Sam, Dean, Bobby, and Castiel gawked around the room, finding a few other disturbing things; lipstick, wigs, women's dresses. And okay, Dean supposes that everyone has their own little kink, and he's not one to judge, but this guy even has waxy molds; holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth cut into it. He was _impersonating_ people too, which obviously shows how the victims were reported to be in two places at once.

 

20 murders. Five 'wolf' killings. Ten impersonations. Five 'vampire' killings. A literal supernatural frenzy that had Dean and Sam crawling off the walls trying to figure it out.

 

"Why?" Dean exclaims. The man, who looks alarmingly like Ebenezer Scrooge, sets down the fake wolf head with his hands--excuse me, _paws_ \--and shrugs. All four of them stand in a half circle around his bed. Sam has his eyebrows furrowed and Dean can only guess what the bear is thinking. If the unclenching and clenching hand around his riffle has any significance, he can assume that his mind is going a mile a minute; maybe if his brother grew up to be a lawyer he could give some sort of reason to this entire clusterfuck, or at least back the killer up with reasoning to his motivation. But then there's Bobby, and Dean is sure that the guy has seen crazy shit in his life. But....this? This, he's not so sure. He has that ' _what the Hell is wrong with you?_ ' look, pacing back in forth in the cramped trailer, muttering to himself about idjits and 'wasted gas money on this crazy psycho who belongs in a looney bin'.

 

"I mean...really?" Sam pries. Once again, the man shrugs.

 

"I think he doesn't know why he did it." Castiel supports, unhelpfully. He pauses a moment, turning toward the direction of Dean. "Should we call someone?"

 

"No." Bobby barks. The Winchesters turn toward him with an incredulous look. "No. I got a better idea."

* * *

 

 Officer Harris walks cordially through the park, taking solace in the molten, cool, summer heat warming his scalp. It's nice out, he muses. _Nice weather_. But the strange absence of children swinging on the monkey bars or lack of abused bats cracking in the distance has him slightly on edge. Forest Park is always a hot zone on weekends, even more so on Sundays; right after church, families and friends occupy the space for picnics. Even more popular, birthday parties.

 

But not today. There's no one here, actually. Just Harris.

 

Woodchips crack and crunch beneath his feet as he scopes out the area--round the swing set; beneath the slide; through plastic tunnels and scratchy windows--suddenly curious, if not wary. He wonders if there was an apocalypse he might have missed, if God chose him to be the last man on Earth. Nope, he remembers blood red cars cruising on the highway, men walking their dogs, and wafting aroma of hot dogs on the grill. So what's going on then?

 

 _Of course_ , Harris face palms. Secured around the perimeter of the park--how he missed this is absolutely embarrassing--is caution tape. Close enough to the edge of the sidewalk, where at first glance, people would be repelled instantly, but far enough away that it wouldn't be noticeable to officials since the tape ends at the very edge of the field near the parking lot where rangers rest their cars. So someone did this purposely, but who? Nobody at the station told him of any crime taking place here; Harris knows that his chief wouldn't take pride in him contaminating the crime scene too.

 

And then he hears it.

 

Quiet enough to be mistaken as a bird's chirp, but different enough to catch his attention. There, exactly on the edge of the forest. Tied to a tree.

 

Oh. God.

 

_**To whoever is reading this, I am the man who has committed all 20 murders in the past three weeks. You are probably wondering why I'm tied to a tree, but that doesn't matter right now. Instead, why don't you take the small package at the trunk of the tree I'm tied to. Look inside.** _

 

Harris crouches to the ground. A pair of latex gloves snap snuggly around his hands; he always keeps a pair while on duty.

 

Harris picks up the package. He opens it.

 

One wig; blonde. One wolf mask; strangely realistic. One set of teeth; fangs for canines. One pouch of blood.

 

He continues reading the note.

 

_**I killed all of those men and women by using these objects. If you don't believe me, test the wig, blood, and teeth.** _

 

And that's it. Nothing on the back of the note, which Harris found tied to the man's toe. He hangs above the officer, whimpering and growling, his arms tied to two branches on either side, and legs tied at the ankles. If he had nails sticking through his skull and wrists, Harris could say that whoever put him there wanted to crucify him. He gapes at the man--in a wolf suit?--and walks away.

 

Tommy Rite is arrested at 3 P.M on a Sunday afternoon.

* * *

_Meanwhile, the Winchesters, an angel, and their handy dandy (notebook) adopted father part ways at an intersection near Oklahoma City's city limit. Bobby claps Dean on the shoulder: take care of yourself. Then Sam: take care of that knucklehead.  He waves goodbye to Castiel._

_"He didn't say anything." Dean backtracks._

_"What about?"_

_"Hello, I was sick for three weeks. Why didn't he say anything?" He accepts the beer with a grateful nod._

_"Did you want him to?"_

_"No, but--"_

_"So there's nothing to talk about."_

_"Don't you--"_

_"What? Care? About you? Course not."_

_Dean rubs a hand over his sternum, slightly winded. This isn't how it goes, how it should play out. Something's wrong._

_"Cas?"_

_"What Sam says is true--"_

_"No! No, you can't say it. You better not say it Cas--"_

_"We don't care about you."_

* * *

 

 He wakes with a start in the passenger's seat of the Impala, wrists throbbing. The first thing he becomes aware of is the cool leather sticking to his cheek; then kisses of cool air frosting his nose; ringing in his ears; and finally, Sam's voice. "What?" Dean asks, sitting up.

 

"I said--you know what? It doesn't matter what I said."

 

"Say. It doesn't matter what you say."

 

"Excuse me?"

 

He finally shakes off the remnants of his nightmare. It doesn't take a genius to know that Sam was asking how he was feeling moments ago. Dean allows himself to be momentarily selfish over this realization.

 

Damn nightmare.

 

"Nothing. So-- Ah, fuck!"

 

"What? What is it?" Sam frets. He pulls the vehicle over, ready to administer first aid; he still feels overprotective over Dean. "Your wrists? Let me see."

 

"So you can measure my pulse?" Dean grits. "No."

 

"Quit being stubborn."

 

"No--Sam, stop. I said quit it!"

 

"Dean--Just let me see!"

 

"Sam! I'm warning you man: back off."

 

"Oh please! Just--"

 

"Wrist scratcher." Both Winchesters flinch back at Castiel's sudden appearance at the passenger's side. Dean aggressively shoves his brother back before rolling down the window. Castiel takes a step forward so that his electric blue eyes are close enough to look at them both. "That's why Dean has been sick."

 

"What's why I've been sick?"

 

"A Wrist Scratcher. Hold up your right hand. See?"

 

Sam gasps. "Dean! What the--"

 

"It's not what you think....I didn't make these marks." He feels offended, hurt, that Sam could actually accuse him of self-harm (unless alcoholism counts). Even after what they've been through...he could never do something like that.  Even so, they're only scars, each one horizontal and blood red; they pulse just like this afternoon in the motel.

 

This afternoon. Not yesterday or the day before. Not last week or the week prior. This afternoon. If these marks are supposedly the reason why Dean has been keeling over every five seconds, why have they only just now shown themselves? More importantly, where did they come from in the first place? What is Cas saying? A Wrist Scratcher?

 

"What exactly is a Wrist Scratcher Cas?" Dean asks, looking curiously at his right hand, disregarding the pain momentarily. He allows the angel to take it, lifting his palm out the window and directly into the sunlight.

 

"They are what you would call phantoms; the more aggressive type. But instead of haunting their prey, they settle for marking them instead--"

 

"By scratching their wrists." Sam finishes.

 

"Correct. It takes about three to five weeks for the marks to actually show, and during that time the host experiences a sort of...of...virus. The disassociation, lack of appetite, slow reactions, fever, etcetera. But that's not all," Cas releases Dean's wrist. He notices the pain pinching his eyes. "Victims of a Wrist Scratcher have also reported strange nightmares, all the while feeling as if something is not right. Like the dreams they were having weren't their own. One person reported dreaming about their family disowning them and sending them to a boarding school contrary to their true nature of being accepting."

 

The car is silent for a few moments.

 

"Wow, that's...Thank you Cas. How did you find that out?" Sam asks.

 

"I am afraid I will have to tell you another time. Heaven is calling."

 

Dean feels a momentary surge of panic as Castiel steps back from the car. "Wait!" he calls. But wait for what? He has nothing to say. And yet, something nags at him. Something important that he needs to get off his chest. A simple 'thank you' would suffice, yet somehow seems strangely inappropriate. Dean thumbs his wrist absently.

 

 _"We don't care about you."_ Suddenly it comes back to him at full force, and no less painful. Dean schools his features, tries to breathe through the unsteady tremor in his hands. Castiel's comment was more painful than Sammy's, which is strange because the hunter has known him his entire life while he and the angel have been friends a year. Is that all they are though? Just friends? Dean shakes his head; there's only one way to find out.

 

"Can you see me at the house tonight or tomorrow? Uh, you know, just to tell me how you figured it out or something? It would be useful to know so that I could put it in our dad's journal; we've never read about Wrist Scratchers before."

 

"Of course." he answers, not exactly specifying the date of his future arrival. Castiel disappears before either of the Winchesters can thank him again.

 


	20. Ritardando Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This is the last part you guys! All of our loose ends should be tied up in this chapter, but if you still have questions then go ahead and ask.
> 
> 2) It took a lot of strength to not attach the Supernatural theme song: Kansas- Carry On my Wayward Son because, you know, this chapter is like the last episode of a season which is usually when they play it but.....
> 
> (Oh fudge it, I listened to it about a billion times anyway while writing this)
> 
> Enjoy!

 

>  
> 
> _Carry on my wayward son_
> 
> _There'll be peace when you are gone_
> 
> _Lay your weary head to rest_
> 
> _Don't you cry no more_
> 
>  

 

By the time Dean and Sam reach 'home', a cheap motel they've rented out as a temporary base, the moon has risen and a cool, summer breeze replaces dusk's place in the world. The motel, as usual, is silent save for chirping crickets and hissing cockroaches; Dean finds both insects crawling on the lamp beside his bed. He looks at them for a second, laying spread out on the mattress, hunter's jacket still fit snugly to his shoulders, and wonders if their puny lives are worth taking.

 

Wry laughter bubbles its way from his throat as he realizes--Deja vu. Wasn't he contemplating about The Science of Cas not long too long ago? And now he's wondering if either of the bugs have a family at home and whether or not they would be missed if Dean decided to snap at them with a towel?

 

"What are you laughing about?" Sam chirps, sauntering from the bathroom to the bed while simultaneously toweling his hair off. He grows slightly wary of the hysterically manic expression on Dean's face, a quirked eyebrow being all it takes to send him into a fit of laughter. Dean tosses his head back and points to the bed lamp. "What, the lamp?" He giggles nervously.

 

The marks are showing again.

 

"Yeah, nothin. It's stupid."  _I must be really tired if I'm seriously laughing about bugs on a lightbulb._ Dean scrubs his hands over his face, as if the gesture could make all the drowsiness disappear. He feels like a flame that's lost its flicker. "Is the shower still decent?" he asks, craving heat. The first time he and Sam checked in had been a nightmare; cockroaches crawling everywhere, a leaky sink, coffee stains on the bed sheets. But the worst of all had really been the bathroom. As usual, Dean obliged an early morning shower before Sam, mainly just to use up all the hot water and piss him off, but when he stepped underneath the spray Dean had a clear view of aged mold and green goo outlining the edges of the shower; it was absolutely disgusting and nearly sent him to his knees, especially after noticing more of it growing on bars of soap too. They swapped rooms after that, thankfully with a better appeal. Making fun of the bathroom's cleanliness has become a sort of inside joke now between the two of them.

 

"Yeah." San answers. "But I could have sworn that shampoo doesn't have eight legs and hair." Of course he's only kidding, but it definitely pays to see Dean blanche.

 

He flips him off instead. "Haha, very funny."

 

"I don't even get why you're scared of spiders, I mean. We've seen _worse things_ Dean. And fuzzy little arachnids can't compare to what's in Dad's journal." Sitting on the bed now, bent forward and retrieving his duffel bag from underneath; Sam slathers on lotion and deodorant (Dean snickers. Can't a man smell like lavender without being made fun of?) and dresses into a pair of basketball shorts, a grey tank to top everything off.

 

As he arranges and rearranges the contents inside his bag, Sam's fingers brush over something waxy; John Winchester's journal rests beneath his palm like a calling card. "So, a Wrist Scratcher." He pulls it out leisurely, flutters it like a fan.

 

"Yeah, I'm still trying to," Dean waves his hand carelessly, "wrap my mind around that. Cas never said why they only focus on the wrist or why they only give us three marks. He didn't give us a lot of detail."

 

"Well he was obviously in a hurry. Heaven probably put him on the leash again." Dean hums in agreement. "And my laptop's broken so we can't exactly look it up...." On the exterior Sam probably looks calm, sounds collected; it's a mask that he's developed, used only when he needs to feign being strong for his brother or sometimes when he needs to think. But on the inside, where all the turmoil and insecurities lay, Sam is a wreck. He's worried about Dean, worried that the fever was just a prelude to something even worse that'll be harder to get rid of. Even though Castiel assured them that the marks signified an End, Dean could still be suffering from after affects, or worse, trauma. No, he _knows_ there's trauma; having a phantom's nightmares; experiencing a wormhole reality; both situations where Dean isn't in control and suffering. Not in control of his emotions, not in control of the pain, not in control of the memories.....

 

"Hey. What's that look for?" Dean grunts. He shifts to lay on his side, wincing slightly at the pain in his jaw and cheek where Cas knocked him out; it still hurts him to know that he actually laid his hands on Sammy, had almost shot him and stabbed him with a knife just on the edge of sanity. His bruises serve a good reminder of his mistake though, and he's determined to punish himself until...until....

 

???

 

"I don't--" Sam's voice comes out whinier than expected, his nose growing three inches longer. "I'm just...you know." Dean gives him a look; his eyes are pinched tightly and although he tries to hide it, drooping past the limit of being labeled as a blink. _Tired then_ , he summarizes. Even when Dean woke up and still felt sick, he was working really hard to solve the case. 

 

This causes Sam to wonder when the last time he got actual sleep was, or if he even tried to. He sighs and shoves the bag back with his heel. Not long ago, about the first day of this month, Dean had tried to manipulate Sam into going back to Stanford by nearly getting him killed on a hunt to scare him off. Sam had exploded once he found out (he asked Castiel) and took the nearest bus to Oklahoma, already having another case lined up. He told Dean that if he wanted him gone so badly he should have just asked instead of going out on a suicide mission. Then he said something about being along the fine line of being suicidal and borderline disappointing, which, okay, was a dick move, but Sam was just so angry....And because he let his anger and guilt get in the way, Dean had no choice but to take himself and the Impala somewhere else. But now that he thinks about it, Sam realizes that Dean simply wanted the best for him like always.

 

He sighs again.

 

"Do you have asthma?" Dean jokes. His right arm lays limply across his stomach, the three scratches raised red and pulsing in the lamp's glow. He's aware that Sammy is battling some sort of inner demon (or demons) and he can just picture the look on his face right now; brows furrowed, the corners of his lips dimpled, one side of his face hollowed in where he's certain that Sam is biting his cheek. Dean usually makes fun of him for it, says he looks like a constipated puppy stuck in a jar (metaphoric for predicament), which usually brings his brother out of his shell to tell him what the Hell's going on inside his head. But tonight, right now, as of two seconds ago, Dean can't even muster the strength to work his jaw to get the words out; tonight he's tired.

 

"No. I am lightheaded though, probably just the shower....Dean?"

 

He fell asleep.

* * *

 

 

"Dean, you look well."

 

"Really? I mean, we're only goin' to a diner." Dean glances down at his black skinny jeans and blue flannel, then bashfully realizes that Castiel is talking about him in general. He clears his throat awkwardly, glancing at something else and licking his lips. The hunter has no idea why he's so nervous all of a sudden, in front of Cas, a friend who probably knows what he looks like inside out and can read his thoughts. They've been comfortable around each other for the most part, just about one year now. The angel is his best friend; Dean is his.

 

"I thought we were going to discuss--"

 

"We are, preferably right now actually. They're kind of having a Happy _Burger_ Hour, so I gotta get there before it's over." Checks his watch: eight PM. Exactly one hour 'till it ends, and they still have to get Cas' information and copy it into the journal before leaving. Dean can pick out that the angel is short on time, watching as his eyes flicker anxiously around the room, shifting weight from foot to foot. "Everything okay up there?"

 

Castiel freezes; he forces his muscles to relax. "Yes. The usual fighting; my brothers and I aren't...."

 

"Ah. The usual family drama, huh." Dean breathes absently. The second hand  _tick, tick, ticks_ scarily fast; Dean can practically feel his stomach tear itself apart, the muscles shifting so restlessly that he can feel the saliva pool inside his mouth.

 

Castiel nods sadly, recalling the small talk he and Dean had in the car three weeks ago, not long after Sam left him for Oklahoma. He's glad that the case is over, even more grateful that Dean is better and up and running like normal again. It hadn't taken as much time to figure out his strange illness as he thought it would take. At least, once he noticed the marks on Dean's wrist. After that it had been simple research. No one in Heaven would help him, however, not even Gabriel who loves a good challenge; Bobby's books flicked and fluttered beneath pinched fingers. He had to read the content carefully since Dean's symptoms were simple and not at all flashy, until, _'Thank you God'_ , a book that was lazing about on the couch flew open to the exact page with what he had been looking for. By that point, research was pointless since the 'virus' the phantom gave to him would run its own course through his body; no cure. Just had to wait until the marks were exposed. That was three days ago.

 

Dean and Castiel perk up as they hear Sam's keys jingling in the doorknob. He went out for a drive earlier to, 'Clear my head', and was a little surprised when Dean didn't ask questions and let him take the Impala. He's back now, having received his brother's call, hair windswept and cheeks flushed pink. He joins Dean and Castiel at the small, three chaired table placed next to the window. The angel says his greetings; Sam says 'hey'.

 

"Oh! The journal, hold on--" He pats his pockets despite knowing the thick leather binding couldn't possibly fit in there, rising to get up.

 

"Right here." Dean waves. Sam can be pretty oblivious sometimes. "'Kay Cas, we're ready. What was wrong with me?" He takes a piece of college ruled paper, pen in hand.

 

Castiel starts from the beginning.

 

"A Wrist Scratcher, an aggressive type of phantom, is never making a conscious decision when it picks its host. However, when they are near areas with high levels of stress, anxiety, anger, depression, angst, violence, war,--"

 

"Cas, Cas."

 

"Sorry. But you get the point. Usually a Wrist Scratcher marks its host by accident; bumping into them for example. They will lash out in an act of defense, scratching the person's wrists."

 

"Why the wrist?" Dean asks.

 

Castiel hesitates a moment before looking him in the eye, the atmosphere suddenly tense. "Wrist Scratchers are phantoms of the suicidal. They attack the wrist because it is easier to draw blood in that area. And the three marks...The first one is never painful for the host because they never feel it. It's like a tickle. So they get angry and strike a second time; to the host they would feel a sting. And finally, the last strike is the most violent; you could imagine why." Dean knows. Most ghosts/ghouls/everything of the supernatural crave some sort of recognition, a point of contact, the chance to be seen by someone other than themselves. Being constantly ignored is like failing a math test a thousand times over; people get frustrated.

 

"By the third strike, the phantom has used its energy supply and can no longer--"

 

"Wait, wait. You said wrists, not wrist. Dean only has one side marked up."

 

"If the phantom is capable, then it will go for the second hand as well. But the total number of scratches will never be over six." Castiel reassures. There's a faint ringing in his ears. _No, not yet. Give me one hour._

 

"Hooray for miracles." Dean grumbles. "Okay! Well, Cas, I think that's everything right? I wrote down all the symptoms and stuff in the car, so I'd say we're good." Checks his watch again: 8:15.  "Come on Sammy, I'm starving." There's a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach, his insides acknowledging something he'd rather ignore. **** ~~~~

_"...when they are near areas with high levels of stress, anxiety, anger..."_

_"Wrist Scratchers are phantoms of the suicidal."_

 

Dean wants to forget.

* * *

 

 

An hour later, the Winchesters are full, sated, and happy in a dimly lit diner. They feel more content than ever, their earlier feud forgiven and forgotten. Castiel smiles along with them, genially happy for the first time in a while, and closes the space between he and Dean casually. His heart stops as fingers accidentally brush over the hunter's flesh; Dean continues to talk as if nothing has happened, making insulting knock-off versions of Sam's puppy face. Castiel is curious as to whether or not he felt his touch.

 

"Yeah, well..." Dean leans in mockingly. Sam lets the end of his sentence fall in irritation.

 

"That's what I thought."

 

"Ass."

 

"-is beautiful? Why, thank you Sam."

* * *

 

 

"So. Time for you to go, huh?"

 

"Sadly, yes. I feel like coming home is becoming more of a chore everyday; nobody loves," Turns toward Dean; steps closer. "or shares," Direct eye contact. "family ties to one another are ignored. It's cold up there."

 

_"We don't care about you."_

 

"Hey Cas," Dean calls in a choked gasp. He pushes off from the hood of the Impala to stand directly in front of the angel, his hands shaking, heart beating a mile a minute. "Don't laugh but....Do you--do you care? About me?"

 

"In what way?" he asked aloud. Castiel meant to hold back that question because he knows that Dean would have to explain himself and then the situation would get awkward, and Castiel would probably get punched for making him flustered (his earlier attempts at flirtation resulted in physical abuse). But he's said the words, there's no going back now.

 

 _In what way?_ Well, Dean isn't sure. He was hoping that Cas would just say yes and they could put this whole situation behind them and pretend the past three weeks of close interactions and bonding were just acts of being friendly. Nothing more (nothing less). _Damn it! But I want it to be more._ And oops, Dean embarrassingly realizes that he's said that aloud. "Uh...."

 

Sam walks out the diner. Castiel snaps his fingers, freezing the setting. "I don't have much time, Dean, but to answer your question...Yes. Yes I do care about you, in fact I-I harbor feelings for you Dean. I have been for a while now, only a few months but....I view you as my God."

 

He hushes Dean just as he says, "Well you have a poor choice in--" The hunter lets his nervous laughter die down. What the fucking Hell does he say to that?!?!?!?

 

"I view you as my God because...because you are the only person that's bothered to guide me through my own insecurities. You teach me things, you make this vessel's heart beat to the point where it starts to hurt, you--I can't say that I love you. I have no experience in relationships." Castiel is also secretly uncomfortable with the thought of being with another man; sometimes God's Will becomes too hard to ignore. _God's Will or the Angels' Will?_   "But I would like to try, if you would let me."

 

Dean tries his best not to sock the angel for his attempts at flirting, settling for wringing his hands instead. Castiel's confessions are slightly worrying, yet genuine in his own way; he can hear the uncomfortable tone in his voice, how he's trying to suppress some sort of issue that's bugging him. But when you put two and two together, an educated guess becomes more of an educated statement; Cas isn't comfortable being with a man. Probably because he was raised off of hatred--after all he did say that Heaven is cold--and his foundational morals lay cemented in the traditional way things were. The world has changed, but Castiel has never been exposed and Dean can't fault him for that.

 

Even so, as they stand below the moonlit sky, Dean contemplates an actual relationship. Castiel is always busy, Dean is always busy. When things try to kill him, Cas gets hurt. They're both stubborn. Castiel can be compromised easily.

 

And yet falling into conversation with him is so _easy_.

 

"I think," Dean starts, "I don't love you either. I can see that we're good partners, that we get along well, that you...like me. But--I don't want to make you uncomfortable by trying to force you into a relationship. Anna and I tried it, didn't work out." _God, you're going to drive me to drink_. "So how about we experiment instead? No strings attached, no hard feelings. I don't even know if this is a one time thing or not, so. Better for both of us. What do you say?"

 

Castiel doesn't hesitate. That powerful, throbbing, painful thumb of his heart has ignited again and he can feel his hands shake. "Yes." he breathes. "Yes, let's do it."

 

He snaps his fingers and the world rights again.

 

 

> _When you're on a golden sea_
> 
> _you don't need no memory_
> 
> _Just a place to call your own_
> 
> _as we drift into the zone_
> 
>  
> 
>  

**End**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I do okay????? Let me know, pretty please!


	21. Requests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School started so my schedule has been crazy lately. I'm sorry for the late updates you guys!!!!

**Request box is open!!!!!!!**

@Evangeleen741 I haven't forgotten about your second prompt involving Bucky, Steve, and Tony. I'll get on that as soon as I can, I promise!


	22. His Design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just a little fic to keep you guys entertained while I write the next prompt.

 

 

**His Design**

                                                                   

       Hannibal Lecter stood at the edge of a cliff.

       He watched the violent, vehement waves of the Chesapeake Bay fervently tear his best friend into pieces, like a starving dog deprived of basic sustenance. He experienced the sea’s metamorphoses, twisting and rising, twisting and rising, until the beast met him eye to eye, Will’s limbs thrown about inside the whirlpool; an arm, his head, both lifeless eyes, and two legs annulled of ankles and feet. Hannibal could only feel suffocated as it shot up and over, arching, and wrapped him up in the eye of the tornado. As it squeezed the air from his lungs far longer than humanly healthy; the spirit of a boa constrictor.

       Despite the ocean’s ferocity, Hannibal was blanketed in a warm tunnel. There was no sound except the beating of his heart—and Will’s—in sync. The echo was a white-cloaked, feline cub, purring and eager to bear its teeth and appear ferocious, but forever a lone omega. A perfect balance of loyalty.

       Hannibal grit his teeth, a new type of desperation electrifying his heart; unfamiliar affection for the man who he designed, who he lured and raised as his own, who attempted murder on his behalf for the sake of love, left the man suddenly void of any other goals he had hoped to achieve prior to Dolarhyde. It was only then, while suffering from the wrath of the empath, did Hannibal really understand the depth of his obsession.

       He loved Will Graham.

       He expected the two of them to run away together and expected to fall as one as well. But his plans strayed way off course and now Will Graham’s personal Familiar has come to Hannibal with a vengeance, slowly choking the life out of him, killing him with kindness.

       How far his desire to bring Will back from the dead depended solely on the cannibal then and whether he chose to fight for what was originally in his possession. What of the empath’s body? What of Hannibal’s heart? Should he have accepted his fate then, succumbing to submersion, or pray to God for strength?

       The outcome seemed fairly obvious to Hannibal as he gnashed his teeth, growled, and let out a barbarous cry as the muscles in his forearms strained to wrestle Will back over the edge. The ends were withered down to a single cord of thread from where the burden of Will Graham’s weight dropped dead, a manifestation of meat, into oblivion and lacerations ascending in a spiral around his forearms sliced through sinew and tendon.

       “This is not my design!” Hannibal called to him. _This was never our design._

       “ _Make it so._ ” He replied. “ _Then make it so. Please._ ”

 

_Then make it so._

_Then make it so._

_Then make it so._

_**Then make it so. Please.**_

****

**End**

           

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....any Hannigram lovers out there?


	23. Civil War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #CivilWar #Stucky #Stony #OtherSurprises???

 

**Dear readers,**

**Can I just say how excited I am to write this next prompt (Which @Evangeline74 requested) and that I am VERY impressed with the plot I've drafted? Honestly, I think this next short is going to be pretty damn awesome.**

**Although I have everything planned, I want to know what you guys think about featuring our beloved Asgardian/Jotun characters, Loki and Thor.**

**Here is a glimpse of what I had been drafting:**

  * Steve moves on, interested in a new person to make conversation with, and starts dating Tony.

  * The first time they build together leads to uncanny flirtation and 80’s diners

  * They join the Avenger’s football team of Shield High

  * The Avengers versus The Asgardians, how Thor joined Shield High, leaving Loki behind at Thanos High who renames his team, Jotun




**Does this appeal to you? Am I the only one who completely fangirls at the mention of Loki and his beautiful self? (Strange how I haven't made a fanfiction for him yet.....)**

**Please comment! Thank you for staying with me this far!**


	24. Civil War Preview

**I didn't want to leave you guys hanging too long, so here's a preview of what I have written! Enjoy!**

* * *

 

Steve and his father are listening to the radio. An ancient, static-y piece of technology foraged from their dead neighbor's trash. Sweat gathers in pools down the knobs of their spine, leaving both of them drenched in thick humidity. Even though Ma has the fan on, two dollars an hour means cutting electricity use down in quarters because just like their neighbors, money is encouraging nothing but desperation and attention to the holes in their wallets. And being the shy boy he is, not yet an idealist, Steve struggles to see an end to this continual discomfort. The legislative branch is broke. The executive branch ran out of ideas. Not enough resources in prison are leading to pedophiles getting a freebie. Even his tiny little nose can detect the faint scent of tobacco on Pa’s clothes, the same smell that had him cringing out of an alley two weeks ago when a strange man begged for money. His teeth were hanging by threads of gum, barely hanging on, and his muscles quivered like an excited rat. Steve never saw that man again once he told his father.

The radio is suddenly shouting nonsense:

_“Oh, Charlie! Don’t you think this is beautiful?”_

_“What? This five-thousand-dollar check, here, on the ground?”_

_“Pack your bags and a case o’ beer. We’re getting out of-“_

“Turn that radio off, please.” Ma rasps quietly from the kitchen. She wrings her raw hands restlessly with a dish towel, opens the shades for light, and reorganizes her bird’s nest for hair into a lopsided top knot.

Pa obliges kindly, muttering that he didn’t want to ‘listen to that nonsense about money anyway’, and slicks his hair back. The bruises in his eyes are digging deeper and Steve can smell something that isn’t cigarette ash in his clothes; bitter, musty, rotten. His father stinks of illness.

“Don’t forget to unplug it. Steve, sweetie, come here please.” The dirty boy scoots back as far as possible, just until the table chair hits the back of the sofa. He rounds the mocha colored furniture, past the front door, the opposite side of the table now, and waits by his mother’s side to converse. As he looks at her, the sweetness of her strawberry lips, salty brown hair and grey eyes, it all paints Steve with an emotion so raw and sudden that even the charcoal beneath his pillow wouldn’t be able to sketch this moment.

He can smell the sickness on her too.

“Do you know what day it is, Steve?” his mother asks, always before a new 24 hours begins, always for no reason at all.

“January 20th, 1930.” Steve answers anyway, knowing that it eases the tightness around her eyes spectacularly.

Ma nods once, doing that magical trick where she appears less burdened by the world. “Here. I want you to go to Ms. Peggy, ask for rice and two cups of milk. Remember your manners, get a good deal.”

“How much rice?”

“As much as you can get.”

Quantity is always important, especially when families are running low on pay checks; the more they can exploit out of a good bargain, the less trips they have to take to the grocery store for meat, bread, and milk. Their neighbor Ms. Peggy is usually a go-to source for times like these, where hunger pains grow more viscous by the day, and clothes suddenly become shower curtains. Even then, even if Steve's family actually had money, the blonde woman would still be their grocer because she never steals more than her products are worth, unlike other stores. 25 cents a bundle of lettuce amounts to 10 cents at Peggy's. She even hands out stamp cards every time you purchase something; ten stamps earn one free product; 20 gets you two. Her bargains are outrageously amazing and it's crazy that the woman bothers to sell good products at such a low price.

All in all, Peggy is the full package for Steve and his small family of breadcrumbs.

So he slips out the door—no need to lace his shoes, since they’re always on—and climbs three flights of stairs all the way to room _303_. _(A) Peggy Carter_ , reads the bronze identification plate. Her door is identical to the walls, floor, and ceiling; beige, with green festering around the edges.

He knocks once, twice, and all of a sudden gets pulled painfully by the forearm into her prehistoric abode.

“What—“Steve begins, but the woman clasps a sweaty palm over his lips, obviously signing him to be quiet.

_Reet!_

_Reet!_

_“Goddamn-it Winnifred!”_

_“Oh shut the Hell up, George. It’s just a glass._ ” A pregnant pause, following what sounds like crystal shards being swept up. Then, _“It was cheap anyway.”_

_“Well. Looks like we’re down two more then. Jesus, woman, what the fuck is going on with you lately? Gettin’ the shakes like mad these days.”_

_“Just a bit weak, that’s all.”_   she, Winnifred, responds. Suddenly, Steve is feeling rather uncomfortable eaves dropping on the neighbors. He swats Peggy’s hand, wiping away the salty aftertaste, and steps back. Takes a deep breath and lets it flow out his nose in small increments.

The weird tightness in his chest disappears, finally.

“Hi. We need s’me rice, Miss Peggy. And two cups of milk please.”

“Good to see you kid.” She replies. They exchange smiles and get to business.

In the 300 floor apartments, the rooms are five feet bigger both length and width wise. Every wall is painted shit-brown; ten light switches ornament all bedrooms—though only one works—the carpet magically deep cleans any stains tracked through the door within hours, and sometimes the AC works too, if you kick it hard enough. Bigger luxuries that Steve’s family have never promoted, but also nothing to get jealous over. More space, after all, just means more money—which the don’t have—to keep filled up.

Peggy on the other hand, has customized her apartment to the max, displaying every cat and mouse poster in the universe collage-placed on every wall; white and impala black play cars are lined up on a shelf by a window above the kitchen sink, some of them paired with their own mini person.

Out of sight, out of mind, in the guest bedroom, Peggy keeps all of her other obsessions in it, including her old high school cheerleading uniforms and objects anybody else would call junk, in cardboard boxes. Steve saw it once not too long ago, and officially thought the woman was crazy.

Her apartment may as well be called:

_Peggy Carter’s Living Space of Unnecessary T_ _hings_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind that this is a rough draft, so the story might not flow as smoothly. Other than that, what are your thoughts on Peggy? Steve? Who do you think Winnifred and George are? 
> 
> (Unless some of you have done research and noticed that one of the main character's parents share the same name........)
> 
> I don't care about kudos, just fill me up with comments! PLEASE!


	25. The Evening Passes, A Rose Petal Falls Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, it's been a while....
> 
> Just a quick reminder that this fanfiction is dedicated to @Evangeline74!
> 
> Also, the previous Civil War preview will still be uploaded, but on my own time and obviously, when it's completed. I felt super guilty for making you, @Evangeline74, wait for several months just for the next prompt to be published. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do about lack of free time.....
> 
> Thank you for bearing with me so far!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

**The Evening Passes, A Rose Petal Falls**

Part 1

 

The next evening passes

A rose petal falls

One man called—

First name starting with ‘B’

Pushed another over

The edge

 

This,

 _Infidelity_ ,

Was posted in the paper of

Journalists:

Eyes from all Avenger’s High

Saw

The trees looking glum,

Sun infected with red-rash fever

And a strange, brown haired knight

Leaning against his bike

A collection of roses

A gift for

 

Captain Rogers

* * *

 

**One week after the incident**

 

       Tony felt personally victimized by the Calibri cursive that Ms. Romanov wrote on the whiteboard. His arms felt numb from sitting directly toward the unit’s AC, goosebumps breaking out from shoulder to wrist, and her overbearing—whatever expensive perfume she bought—was nauseating.

       Only two minutes into the lecture, he exhaled and rubbed at his red-rimmed eyes; first period was always the hardest to wake up to.

       “Most of us regard good luck as our right,” the widow recited, standing stiff, ginger hair coiffed neatly upon her shoulders, “and bad luck as a betrayal of that right.” She sipped at her water bottle and turned her attention toward the double-pane windows, letting in drowsy morning sunlight.

       The class was silent but the teenage enthusiast heard everybody’s thoughts like static. Even the inferior ones, who, albeit a bit dusty on their argumentative skills, analyzed the quote enthusiastically. It could have been the heat on that humid, Summer day, but maybe Tony felt more empathetic than normal for just a little while. Of course, another reason for the classroom’s audible thought process may perhaps be because students were murmuring quite audaciously upon the wooden desks, passing notes along or texting the latest school news.

       “I won’t say that you haven’t experience betrayal; everyone has. In any form, at any time, manipulated by any person, even the youngest child in the world could be exposed to…troubling circumstances.”’

       Of course, Ms. Romanov would bring that up. Of course, that same week Peggy decided to publish her newest article. Tony was dying to know if the teachers thought that student gossip was the most interesting thing in the world as opposed to Nick Fury’s recent file for divorce.

       “With this in mind, you all have a new assignment that will be due before the grading period ends. Tony, hand these out please.” He received a packet bundle, feeling warm in his hands; probably fresh out the printer.

       Ms. Romanov waited until the brunette began handing the packets out—starting with Bruce’s desk—before explaining the project. “All it is, is a little research and literature. Seeing as this class has yet to turn in any creative writing, Mrs. Odinson and I thought it was about time to see how your grammar skills have improved.” _Well she can go fuck herself._  Tony thought, irritably. Loki gave him a guilty look as he passed his desk.

      “Some things she and I will be looking for is how well you introduce conflict to the piece, as well as a creative mindset; do something past your capabilities—something philosophical, spiritual, realistic, horrifying. It can even be poetry.” Some of Tony’s friends nodded in approval; they chose metaphors, not an obvious plot. “Basically, I’d rather not ready another romantic tragedy.” _Wow. She…_ actually _sounded convincing. But I think we all know that Natasha is just looking for another Emily Bronte._

       “How many points is it worth?” Tony asked, returning the spare rubrics to his English teacher and seating his jean-clad, grey button-down topped body back in his seat. _It can’t be that many_ , he told himself.

       “One-hundred. Including grammar, creativity, flow, structure, and personal interest.” Natasha knew the last category was unethical, but if one thought about it, Shakespeare would have never debuted without the majority going gaga over his plays. “So I suggest you get going now if you want to complete the rough draft and add final edits before next Friday.”

       Nodding his head, Tony raised his hand to be excused. He took the lanyard hall pass before stepping out the door, covering his eyes as the sun unveiled behind a curtain of clouds.

* * *

 

       One truth was obvious to Steve and his boyfriend that night.

       “We’re going on that scholarship together.”

      Tony nodded. He poured a glass of “imitation champagne”—which was really apple cider—in a small wine glass for himself, then Steve.

       Two or three moments passed in silence until he laughed suddenly, the contents of his glass swishing dangerously toward the edge. Tony said, “Our parents are gonna flip!” He wheezed between breathes of hilarity, covered his eyes with his left hand, leaned over the counter, and cackled even harder than he began.

       Evidently, it was hard not to join in, and Steve allowed himself to loosen up for the first time that week. His stress headache died down to a low buzzing in his ears just as the blonde guided Tony to his side, smiling until his face hurt, and kissed him everywhere on that gorgeous visage. Coach Wilson had confronted them earlier in the day, his scarred face expressing nothing but pride.

_“Congratulations.” he announced to the two players out on the field. Wade pulled out two alabaster envelopes from his wind breaker and presented them to the boys._

“Oh my God, Tony. We’re going to Georgia. On a football scholarship. Holy _shit_!”

       “A _full-ride_ , football scholarship. That means all we have pay for is gas, groceries, and pretty much private luxuries—which leaves a lot of money set aside for us just in case.”

       “I hope you realize how blessed we are, Tony.” Steve reminded, finally taking a sip of his “champagne”. If they were old enough, no doubt they would both be drinking the real thing.

       “Sure, I do.” Was Tony’s uncaring reply. “Come on.”

       Bypassing any warning, Tony took his boyfriend’s free hand and led him upstairs to celebrate.

* * *

 

       It happened next Monday, four days before the game against Thanos High, just five days before they would tell their parents what they had been hiding—after the big game.

       Mr. Odinson shockingly dismissed their class without any homework for the evening, so Tony joyously made way to the locker room. If he knew what he would see during passing period…well, he just might have brought a water gun to cleanse the crime scene.

* * *

 

A collection of roses

A gift for

 

Captain Rogers

 

He searched for a word

To describe the picture

The forest screamed just

Ahead, behind,

The man’s name starting

With ‘B’

Emerged

 

Rogers shook like a

Puppy,

Licked murky tears from

The other’s face

Said, “I missed you.”

 

The next evening passes,

A rose petal falls

* * *

 

**The incident**

 

       Tony kept it sweet and simple—

       “Who was at the gate today?”

       “Thanks, Tony. My day was great. How was yours?”

 _“_ You kissed his face.”

       Steve sucked his teeth, roared the silver Prius to life. It felt like all the giddy excitement and shared intimacy from Saturday night was irrelevant, now. _As he smoothed back his chestnut hair, nervously avoided eye contact, tried not to give in to the pressing ache just there, deep inside. As the bed creaked and groaned, as Tony’s breathless sighs scorched Steve’s skin. As the genius broke down crying because his parents divorced, as Steve peppered his heart with heavy kisses. As Tony returned the favor with erotic poetry and a sensual massage._ Looking back, it was easy to admit that nothing was more exciting than to come home with Tony, to grow up with Tony, to cook with Tony, to _be_ with Tony.

       But then Bucky happened.

       He _came back_.

_Early!_

       And Steve had acted rather recklessly, which was why they were in that situation then, still in the school parking lot and talking about a piece of his past he would rather not get into.

       Could he remember what it was like to be with Bucky, though? Even if what they had was only a close friendship, just two emerald bracelets holding their bond together, and a shared milkshake every other Sunday, it was certainly a solid one. The two were inseparable back then….

       Steve sighed.

       “Before I met you, there was another person—“

       “Who also had a dick.”

       “I didn’t date him, Tony.”

       “No, no. You didn’t hear what I said, Steven. He. Had. A. Dick.”

       “If you would let me explain—“

       “I thought you said I was the first guy you took interest in! Or, as you put it, ‘The only guy who made me bi-curious.’”

       “Bucky was my best friend in middle school. He was expelled and went to juvie after eighth grade promotion—which left me pretty pissed off—and never came back until now. Okay? I was just,” Steve lowers his voice to an exasperated whisper, “, just excited to see him after five years of no contact.”

       Tony was still marveling at the fact that Mr. Honesty (AKA Steve Rogers) lied to him. And that his ex-boyfriend went to juvie.

_Really?_

       “So who do you want to be with after seeing him—Bucky—again? Trust me when I say this Steve, a polyamorous relationship is _not_ what I’m looking for!” Despite his bold words, Tony was a hair’s width away from plunging into a deep abys. The emotional courage he normally felt collapsed under the weighted palm Steve placed on his thigh, insecurity taking its place.

       “Honestly,” the blonde choked, “, I don’t know….”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter on Thanksgiving Day!!!!!!


	26. The Evening Passes, A Rose Petal Falls Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't get as much work done as I'd hope, but as soon as we're back in San Diego, I'll continue plotting.
> 
> Thank you for the comments, kudos, and patience!
> 
> Enjoy!

“So who do you want to be with after seeing him—Bucky—again? Trust me when I say this Steve, a polyamorous relationship is _not_ what I’m looking for!” Despite his bold words, Tony was a hair’s width away from plunging into a deep abys. The emotional courage he normally felt collapsed under the weighted palm Steve placed on his thigh, insecurity taking its place.

            “Honestly,” the blonde choked, “, I don’t know….”

* * *

 

It was cold enough to know that somehow, even in vain, Tony would remain with Steve until he made his decision; with the wind blowing relentlessly, making the deciduous trees cry out in shivery chimes, our conflicted blonde was an anchor for the genius to tie himself to until things blew over. Paired with the assurance of sincerity for whatever Steve decided for himself, the anticipatory breath was nothing short of a dry exhale—promise less, a teaser. And for the lonesome days since Tony caught his boyfriend laying the love on thick—without any visible remorse—on another man, what familiarity stayed stuck, except for that same beautiful smile?

Loki confronted him in the hallway on Thursday. He was wearing Robert Cavalli jeans and a green cardigan, which paired beautifully with his emerald eyes. Underneath was grey a V-neck tucked into his jeans, fastened tightly with the required leather belt that every male was required to wear at Avengers high. He sauntered close to Tony, leant on the lockers as carefree as a cat.

“Steve’s an idiot.” The pale beauty said. He gave Tony a once over, from the blemished white sneakers he wore that day, to his grass-stained jersey. Tony supposed he was the tramp here, compared to the lady.

“Oh,” he breathed, “, I know. And you know?”

“I heard the news from Thor, Thor heard it from his stupid friends,” Loki rolled his eyes when mentioning the Warriors Three, “and his friends were forced to listen to the gossip coming out of Peggy’s mouth during journalism.” Tony cursed. “So, you can imagine the risks of letting this escalate, right? From here on, it is hearsay. Peggy _will_ publish that article—pictures too.”

“Pictures?!” Tony inhaled sharply, scanning the eggshell tiles to direct his fury at. Peggy was the school’s head journalist—the editor of the paper—and her enemies were always looking for a reason to block anything she tried to post.

“Three of them.”

“I got to stop her. I _have_ to stop her.” Tony dragged his focus from the floor to look at Loki, who gracelessly avoided eye contact. “When will she publish the paper?”

“Game day.”

 “Okay. Okay, I can work with that. It’s just three days from now.” But who would he talk to within those three days that would be able to convince Peggy not to publish her “article”? Who—in this prejudiced school—would give Tony the time of day with the big game coming up and homecoming right around the corner? With the amount of patience he harbored, he doubted anything could get done with one thousand other things on his mind either.

Steve and Bucky included.


	27. The Evening Passes, A Rose Petal Falls Part 3

On Wednesday, Ms. Stark packed her things and left for San Francisco at twelve in the morning. She paused down the hallway to look through Tony’s door, and observed him with his head shoved beneath a pillow, the air conditioner on low and pressuring the sheets; sleep never came easy to her boy, but it was obvious that he was shut in the dream world, muttering to himself quietly like a newborn baby. The angel he was to other people, Tony never took the time to nurture himself, just like her, and most definitely like his father. He was always giving to someone in some way, whether it was to tutor the neighbor’s kids next door or joining community service for their weekly mass to raise money for more public trash cans around the area. Tony was seldom selfish.

        Of course Natalie took care to give him his space during these activities, sitting back with ashes in her throat, the weight coming off emotionally and physically all the same. The cannabis was just an excuse to fill herself silly and stay high through the emotions, she would tell Stark. Growing up around the bad crops of the season planted those habits in her head—yes, all the more reason to make sure their son wouldn’t grow up the same way she did, with the same habits and bad choices. So Natalie sent herself to court for rehabilitation, for closure. It wasn’t until San Francisco promised a rehabilitation opportunity that she couldn’t get there, locally, that the judge swept his gavel down and put their home on lockdown.

       Child’s protective services, for Christ’s sake.

       She was trembling, couldn’t handle the heat rising within their household. Tony sat back and watched with such stubborn dignity a teenager shouldn’t have had at his age. And her husband…. Well, if the papers for absolute custody over their son was any hint, Natalie promised to herself that she would sleep alone from then on.

       Now she shakes herself out of the lethargy, giving a bittersweet smile to Tony as he shifted and twisted the sheets. With the deadline approaching so eagerly, those last images were what she chose keep archived in her memory for when the house spat back with chewed up divorce papers, signed and mailed off to the judge.

 

* * *

 

She languished in a hopeless marriage,

 feeling stupid.

She longed to lay in bed with Him,

still feeling stupid. She

looked at Him and thought,

_What the Hell did I do to feel so stupid?_

* * *

 

       At midnight, the Stark name was lost and luggage was packed. She had courage to feed herself to the strange world, dying, as Natalie Ray left no evidence for Tony to find in the morning, when his life would take a most dreadful turn. His last source of comfort vanished, totally, as the car purred and drove into oblivion.

 

The sun rose again,

 another evening fell.

Clouds couldn’t mask the sun—he was blinded

 Rose petals curled in baked masses, then fell

and refused to bloom again

Everything was dying.

 

* * *

 

        Tony was benign to any emotion whatsoever as the three-day mark came closer. To describe his depression most accurately, one had to picture a snake hanging on their person, like a burden intent on making your life Hell, simply to spite what your morals challenged. He felt annoyed that Steve hadn’t taken their last discussion seriously and continued to pursue Bucky with valentine intentions despite the pending answer the blonde owed. Steve didn’t understand that Tony _needed_ something to stem from, someone to blame. What, was he supposed to guess? Did their scholarships mean nothing? Did Tony have to travel alone, halfway across the country because Steve would drop everything to attend to _Bucky’s_ needs?

       Was he truly so deserving, so _destined_ to have everybody take the word ‘love’ and shove it up his ass at some point? Was the real question.

       And Tony had no answer.

       By Thursday afternoon Loki’s sources were completely unreliable because nobody followed up on Peggy’s scheduled work days, where she would be out and about the school to collect information for the paper. Without them, it was impossible for Loki to intercept the red head; singly pure anticipation pointed them nowhere.

       “I am sorry that this escalated so far.” Loki said. His words seemed to be genuinely sincere, for Tony felt the soft, cupped palm of the God’s hand on his shoulder, warmed with blood. _The blood thriving in his veins that kept him alive and kicking, the blood he shared with Thor and the Odins, the blood that would spill a rich maroon and later spill into the heart of someone more deserving than family._

       It was impossible to not feel envy for the gifts Tony would never have.

       He tried his best to pass off every emotion as nonexistent, but the muscles in his face were too tired to hold a smile for seconds at a time; and before long, the snake dragged them down as well. Occasion after occasion, Coach Wade threatened to bench him during the game if his trembling hands didn’t ‘catch that ball one more time’—Steve even took his leading position for a while—but worst of all were the pitying looks he received during passing period, exclusively from people of journalist majors with early access to the juicy gossip. This included Thor’s friends, who called themselves the Warriors Three.

       “It’s…quite a mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Tony.” they mocked. The brunette swallowed thickly, letting the pressure behind his eyes quail, once, twice, as their unwanted criteria nearly pushed his tears to the surface.

       “Yeah? Well….” 

        Loki shouldered Tony harshly to get to his brother’s friends, as composed as a psychopath telling himself that he belonged anywhere; their condescending nature was less important than any article in the limelight. He hissed in their faces.

       When the fight calmed, it was quiet in his head. Loki’s threats sounded like water in a seashell. The Warriors Three, no longer condescending and shrunken into their usual posture, almost looked ashamed— _dotting on me_ , the brunette realized. _Sympathizing_.

       He let his vision exhaust its focus as one of them deleted the recording, holding his phone face-front so that Tony saw the empty video slot.

 

       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have such bad writer's block, you guys! Where do I go with this?


	28. The Evening Passes, A Rose Petal Falls Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sincerely sorry for the hiatus. My grandma has been diagnosed with cancer, my mom is stressed, my studies as a dancer is crumbling because my leg isn't getting any better. I've been trying to write every day, I swear, but the anger and anxiety in my chest has kept me from focusing on the other part of my life that I love.
> 
> Thankfully, though, some things are getting better and I'm starting to get more ideas flowing. Hopefully, you will forgive me for this gigantic cliffhanger that I had left you with in the previous chapter without some sort of warning. I'm sorry!
> 
> P.S. I'll be back to edit this some more. I know that the timeline of this story wasn't very thought out and has probably confused some of you. But, anyway, carry on.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Where were you all this time?"

       Bucky knew he was going to ask that day. He had seen the curiosity his eyes, the skipping breathes in his chest, throbbing veins stretching tanned skin. Pulsing. Itching.

       He opened his mouth, but—

_I can’t_

_We can’t_

_Steve!_

       —choked on his own saliva, sinking deep into the mattress, bones locked in place.

        "Well," Twisting his torso to look at Steve upset his stomach momentarily and set a new wave of nausea through his gut. They were acting cautious around each other. Acting like strangers forced to inhabit the same room while the people who prayed for their friendly becoming contained their awkwardness through forced smiles. Bucky went to juvie for theft, but people looked at him like he killed someone. They stared as he walked down the halls of Avengers High, puckered their lips like squeezed lemon fruit, pursued him and Steve like flies. The claustrophobia was overwhelming.

       “I,”, A gentle breeze curled around his neck length locks, tickling his nape; he tucked them behind his ears. “It’s pretty anti-climactic and boring and vague, but-”

       “Whatever you know I should hear, just tell me. Don’t beat around the bush, Bucky.”

       “Right.” The brunette tried not to feel afraid as he placed a gentle hand over Steve’s forehead, noticing that his skin was feverish and red. He stroked the fringes of neat, even bangs and carded them to meet his knuckles, where the palm of his hand massaged gently over the Steve’s scalp. Out with it, then.

       “Ever heard of Barnes Company, its owners Winnifred and George? They’re loaded, filthy rich, world renowned, and the greatest pretenders I’ve ever met. I used to steal from them.” He let Steve process this information, continuing as he felt the blonde flush with goosebumps. He scoffed, crossed his ankles, and tugged at Steve’s hair. “They were actually my parents? Nah. No. They were nothing to me and I was nothing to them, Steve, I wasn’t supposed to be born. I mean, they wanted a successor to take over when they were older, but they wanted one _later,_ not during one of the largest lawsuits against their rival company they had ever dealt with since competition had begun to rise. Not when the company was underway of crashing completely.”

 _He wasn’t supposed to be born?_ Steve didn’t understand.

            “Winnifred fucked the CEO of the company they were fighting against, some other pretentious buyer, and they completely screwed over everybody in court. Nobody won, in the end, and it was just the Barnes, red-necked and at each other’s throats every day since then on. She carried an accident inside her stomach.”

            Steve suddenly felt like a horrible human being for asking about Bucky’s past at all. He couldn’t run away from him, though. His company made sense, despite every other forewarning thrown at them since the beginning of the week. He made himself still his nervous shivering, listened to what Bucky had to say.

            “Cash, credit cards, their most expensive technology…. It was more out of envy and anger than anything when I stole and my only goal was to hurt them. Like they hurt me by abandoning me after useless years of faked normalcy…I can’t recall any warm memories of the time I spend there.” Yes, it was a solid 11 years of neglect in that house.

            _And, do you feel cold in my home, Bucky?_

       Ocean blue waves shadowed on Steve’s bedroom walls.

      Bucky swallowed around the swell of anxiety in his throat, giving in to the pull of nimble fingers, allowing his body to be vulnerably bared to the ceiling and positioned awkwardly on top of Steve's torso. If it weren’t for the hand caressing his neck, he would have floated away, far from the drama before it could solidify. “Three years of theft left an impression on them. My foster parents were sued, and, it was all so sudden. I was nearly taken away from them, nearly passed on to another family.” Anxious laughter bubbled from his throat. “Can you believe I only got detention?! I thought the judge was insane, but, somehow it seemed like she understood what my verdict was. She kept looking at me sadly, like I was some guilty mutt that deserved to be put out of its misery before the next strike hit his gaping wounds.”

_"Stray."_

_"On fire."_

_"Thinning."_

_"Unstable."_

_"Misguided."_

_"Unloved."_

       He breathed in Steve’s exhale as his own oxygen supply diminished, finding that there were more details to the story than he thought.

       Unexpected actions and spontaneous confessions.

       Bucky stopped breathing.

       “So,” his words trembled with the promise of an oncoming sob, “off to correctional detention I went.” He hit a grey area. The ending, like he said, was anticlimactic. It didn’t feel just to him, was unfulfilling and dry. Nonetheless, his tears spilled.

       Not one moment too soon—Steve suddenly reversed their positions to straddle Bucky's hips, nuzzling into the brunette’s neck and squeezing his physique tightly. “Now here I am, stirring up even more problems for people.”

       “No. Look,” Steve scrunched his nose, tasting the sour flavor of guilt on his tongue, “Tony is just a little jealous--"

       “Tony?” Bucky said absently. His eyes were glassy, his breathing staccato notes. He felt a sudden pull of fatigue that set bone deep and pinched his eyes shut. “Is that why the school is acting so weird? Because there’s another guy you were involved with before I came here?” The realization was like a stab in the heart.

_God, Steve had been fucking someone else all this time? Jesus Christ._

       Though the physical scars from juvie and his adolescent life obviously didn't lessen the pain he suffered each day from self-loathing, he had half a year to get his life plan organized and had only three people to help him do it; his counselor and parents. Steve was excluded for personal reasons. It was a lost cause, anyway, seeing as he was going to another state on scholarship in a couple months. They wouldn’t even get the summer to each other.

       This—

_Moment_

_Touch_

_Aching_

_Longing_

       —was it.

       He would come to regret being so pessimistic in the future, but all Bucky could think about at that moment—wrapped in Steve’s arms, straddled innocently by strong thighs—was how to escape.

 

* * *

 

Change in his pocket

One dollar to buy something sweet

 

Bad for him

 

Like goodness tasted really bitter

 

Phantom jaws ripped flesh from his arms

Blurry, descending, colliding, chaotic

He was ready to fall into bed and cry himself to sleep.

 

Sweat trickled down his neck, then the handcuffs bit his skin

He wanted the key

 

Like freedom was the pursuit of unhappiness

 

Bad for him

 

 

* * *

 

       The next thing he knew, there was sweat sticking to his neck and a comforter cocooned him, downy and grounding.

       "Bucky?" Steve called. He leaned his forehead on Bucky's pale palm, gazing at him shyly behind long eyelashes. For a football player, he carried a very tender and gentle nature in his heart. His brain, on the other hand, made practical decisions, everything he said or did the product of overthinking or too much stimuli at once.

       “Just so we’re clear, Bucky, you know that I wouldn’t purposefully try to hurt anybody for fun. Right?” He asked him as they laid together. Bucky wondered about the bitterness and warning in his tone. He wondered where Steve was taking this discussion, wondered how badly his story had affected his mindset about having a relationship.

        Blushing as Steve squirmed on his lap, waiting for a reply, he said, “Yeah. But not everyone can be so kind and expect not to upset friends and family their whole lifetime.”

       “Hm.” Steve hummed. He started picking at Bucky’s shirt buttons as if they were stitches on a football; wanted to see them unravel. “Tony would be the first I’ve ever hurt. I’m planning on letting him go before—”

       “No.” Bucky spat.

       Steve curled his lip. His forearms clenched and held steady, wrists bending under pressure as his fingers clenched the sheets. “What?”

_Just fucking say it._

       “I…just don’t think that that’s a graceful move on your part, Steve. Could be a mistake, dumping him.”

       Silence for several moments. Blue and brown eyes clashing, swirling, meshing, polarizing. A quivering throat swallowed audibly, and voiced,  “Look, I was confronted the other day by this chick at school. I meant to tell you sooner, but Tony and I have been busy trying to cover your ass.” Bucky said. “Peggy Carter is trying to publish a gossip article on our relationship. She’s looking for drama, fun, and a chance to bother someone. I've met people like her and I can definitely tell you that she probably has plenty tricks up her sleeve to try to get to us."

       "What the fuck. Shit," Steve swallowed. He screwed his face up sourly, as if the image of his “ex” and best friend working together to save him from bad publicity— _working_ _together_ —was something he had to wipe away from his imagination. It sounded unbelievable. Impossible.

        "What dirt does she have on us that I don’t know about?”

       “Look, it’s already deleted and I have the evidence in my bag. We don’t have to worry about—”

       “ _What_ was deleted? What _kind_ of evidence?” Steve pushed. His left eye twitched while his hands wrung themselves out in the grip of the comforter. Bucky had never seen him so nervous before. He ran a hand through his hair and sat up; his long sleeved black sweater rode up on the way, giving Steve a glimpse of his chiseled abdomen in the process. They were both muscular. And strong. They could have been strong together if Bucky hadn’t gone to juvie.

       "Peggy showed me a photo of you and I. The day we….” a blush fanned across his cheeks and ears, “were reuniting by the football field. She had a recording of us of what we said, did, but Tony got her staff to delete it and saved us the embarrassment of having direct quotes in the story.” The whole situation was so invasive to Bucky, proving how little privacy he could ever hope to find outside of controlled households and prison fences.

       Steve slid off his lap to lean against the headboard. He started rubbing his temples and only paused when Bucky stopped speaking, as if the brunette’s words were directly harming his head. “Jesus Christ.” He sighed.

       “And I-”

       “We aren’t officially dating.” Steve snapped back. “He and I have nothing that the two of us share and never will. Trust me Bucky, I know how loyal I am. But Tony, he’s a pompous bastard, who is ignorant, selfish, and condescending, never giving a fucking care whether the world screws anybody but himself over.” His words were lies. “Goddammit, I just—how can I—why can’t I express how I’m feeling about this? All I want is to go back to the way things were between us before you left.”

       “Don’t lie to yourself like that, Steve.”

       “It’s the truth.”

       “No, it’s not.” Bucky insisted. He rubbed his eyes and found them damp. Tears threatened to tip over the edge of his eyelids. “I can see through your mask, I know that you feel overwhelmed by my homecoming and school. But I hate the way you deny the lack of excitement and happiness in your gut when you’re with me.”

       Nimble tree limbs began to strike the window pane as the wind lifted. Steve saw that the sky swallowed the sun, rendering the outside dark and murky; it was Summer time and temperatures were humid. Going outside would feel like walking into an overcrowded sauna.

       “I don’t…no, I don’t. It’s not like that, we’re just—”

       “Please, Steve,” A wavering resolve in Bucky’s brain birthed an awful feeling of pain in his chest. His eyes blinked wildly. “, just tell me when you’re going to let me in.”

       “Tony deserves—”

       “To be treated right. He deserves to have a voice in this. He deserves to talk about his feelings with you. He deserves to be heard!” His voice had steadily grown into raw shouting. He subconsciously wondered if Steve’s parents had begun furrowing their eyebrows, had curved their ears to hear what was happening in their son’s room.

       “He does. You’re right. He does.” Steve placated. He had thought that breaking up with Tony would be easier than this, but Bucky didn’t seem to want to make his decision an easy one. From the first day he had arrived, neither Steve nor Bucky seemed to click in the wrong place and the thought of them being what they used to was apparently only a dream. And yet Steve kept pushing. He kept pushing for love, he kept fighting for intimacy, he kept arguing for the nostalgic personas that had obscured their vision of the future every day since middle school. When they had met in the fifth grade, Bucky had been living with his real parents, about 11 at the time and much more reserved than he was in the present. They had shared the same wooden desk, had copied each other’s homework, identified themselves as the only two pure immigrants in the entire school and fed off each other’s loneliness. And though they were young, Steve and Bucky had managed to build a strong co-dependence off each other, had nurtured a brotherly relationship between them while the adults were oblivious.

       But, of course, with only two people to keep each other company and no outliers, they didn’t have an appropriate way to get rid of all the anger that was piling up inside. Steve avoided his parents for two years while they tried to figure out a way to stay in the states. Bucky, while his parents had a more successful and wealthy status than Steve’s, had managed to get involved in one of the largest stock crashes they had ever seen. The brunette found out that his father wasn’t really his father, and his mother had refused to acknowledge Bucky as her son as soon as he was born. The “love palace” was crumbling. They drifted. And then…Steve had got a phone call from his mother during school reporting the most devastating news: that his best friend had been placed in a correctional detention. For how long, he had asked, Will he be okay? But what he wanted to ask more than anything was—

       “Steve?” Bucky cooed. The blonde was quiet, absently staring at Bucky’s shoulders, biting his lower lip raw. Bucky sensed the anxiety rippling from his chest. He felt guilty, thinking that he was being too rough on him, giving him a harsher scolding than was deserved. But, what Bucky was trying to say…. What he was trying to ask Steve is—

      _“Are you feeling the same way you felt about me when we first met?”_

_“Do you still love me like back then?”_

       Thundering hearts on a dizzying railroad. Eyelashes batting. Teeth grinding. Eyes boiling. It was finally out there, what they had been keeping inside for so long.

       It felt good.

* * *

 

        Peggy Carter. A busy mouthed red head that stalked Bucky through the hallways of Avengers High, constantly bitching about anything and everything. Her favorite topic: Bucky Barnes and his "mysterious, closeted relationship with Steve Rogers".

       He remembered clearly, the odor of her excited sweat and De la Rose fragrance as she cornered him on the way to physics class. He remembered students freezing in place like the building plummeted to Arctic temperatures and froze their bones. Chewing gum smacked dramatically in their mouths and then the occasional snicker from amused on-lookers who were closer to the two, seeing the tremble in Bucky's shoulders, the menace in Carter's eyes.

       "Peggy Carter, head of the journalism department; leading editor of The Black Widow series." She introduced. She didn't shake his hand. Bucky nodded slowly, huddling closer to his locker. "I'm seeing some curiosity in those eyes, Bucky. You don't have to be wary of me. My colleagues and I just want answers."

       "To what?"

       "Who are you?" she asked immediately, pursing her lips. "Not your name. Occupation. Status, pseudo.  I can come up with a dozen answers of my own, but, I assume that you would rather I stimulate them instead from your honest word, correct? Not the word of your peers?" Her lips were red, sharp canines peeking sexily behind a plump lower lip. The V of her white sweater had dipped lowly to the crevice of her breasts, not leaving much to the imagination. Bucky would have fucked her if they were friends.

       He had contemplated walking away and she had sensed it. "Another thing: my mind is coming up with some damning evidence on your background, Barnes, which could...damage...a certain student's relationship between him and Rogers. So. I'll ask again: Who are you?" An unspoken _tell me now or I’ll just make something up_ had followed. She wasn't looking for a name. 

       A status.

       Bucky scowled. His curiosity dwindled, and in its becoming, annoyance took place. That girl and her eggshell blazer, clean powder pink skater's skirt and white blouse coaxed out the delinquent in him. He smiled.

      "You’re just another rich princess to me, Peggy. I don’t know you, the school doesn’t know me, and whoever it is that you’re talking about that’s supposedly suffering from me and Steve hanging out can either go fuck himself or come to me directly.” He slammed his locker shut and smiled as the closest viewers startled.

       The little shits.

        “I don't remember you ever coming to me to ask for an interview, Peggy. So I'm going to ask you to contact me first the next time you want to talk instead of cornering me like an animal during the middle of passing period just because you think you have the right."

       The crowd blanched.

       The next thing Bucky knew, an uncomfortable pressure settled on his toes and his eyes were shooting to the back of his skull in alarm while a waxy piece of paper was waved in front of his face. As they focused out of the murk, Peggy said, “I’m no homosexual, but I can tell when things are getting cozy in my territory, Barnes.” Her polished talons resisted Bucky’s pull on the photo as he tried to snatch it from her. People started to murmur and shuffle closer. Peggy herself was leaning nearer to the trembling man, the means for business and straight-talk written so raw in the folds between her eyebrows, gnashing teeth pulling those cheekbones taught. Looking back, Bucky realized that if it weren’t for a certain Oakwood haired, lean muscled, dimple cheeked boy—

       “Your tampon is showing.”

       —his situation would have been a lot worse.

       And then it was all irrelevant at that point: what others thought of Bucky, what Peggy wanted from him, the truths he wouldn’t share. The laughter continued throughout the rest of passing period. Peggy Carter, "head of the journalism department" fled from the scene, trying to pull down her short skirt and dash to the bathroom in a momentary interval of embarrassment. The boy who had made the nonchalant remark continued strolling past the rows of lockers with his steaming cup of coffee in hand, skateboard rolling steadily beneath his feet. Peter was his name, he learned that day. He was in his physics class, but sat toward the back of the class away from anybody’s range of sight. Intentional or otherwise, what the boy did that day to save Bucky from embarrassment was purely selfless and brave, if not purely innocent. It didn’t matter what the photo of him and Steve was; it was the boy—“His name is Tony Stark.”—standing  shocked and fuming in the darker pitches of the photo that captured all of his attention.

        “He’s Steve Roger’s boyfriend.”

       Steve’s boyfriend: cherry cheeked, watching them kiss with an expression akin to heartbreak.

       After that distressing revelation, Bucky retreated into the depths of his mind for peace and quiet as if the solutions to his frequent dilemmas were etched into the fine concrete cracks in his skull. It was cowardice, yes, the way he chose to turn his back on the real world. Yet, also vulnerable that the way the nape of his neck was open, susceptible to damage. It was the only exercise that worked; one the orderlies in juvie taught him when he enrolled. He had had a temper back then. When his shoulder had ached every day. When festering guilt beneath the lacerations on his body or the confused words he spoke were bitter and were spoken angrily. Bucky had been trapped physically and mentally. He found that any effort he put into rehabilitation since his sentencing were wasted on the few memories he could never—would never—let go of. Closure was the only real issue.

       Closure of the premature relationship between he and Steve. Closure for his parent’s supposed forgiveness. Closure for the way he ignored his own feelings and others’, scratching his brain raw to stimulate the abominable nightmares that he deserved to live through to repent for all his time wasted cursing the world. Closure was the only thing Bucky wanted, not more confusing feelings. But people like him didn’t go out and look to make amends with lengthy discussions and heart-to-heart bonding. No, his restless personality offered respite in action and reaction to what was dealt in time. That was why he decided to wait for Steve, flowers in hand, guest pass around his neck: to touch what he had thought had belonged to his hands and eyes...only realizing how much his partner had grew without him. Steve looked muscular when he saw him for the first time that afternoon, certainly grew past the average height of a normal teenage boy with gold for hair and sapphire gems for eyes. That steel determination in his gut that Bucky had stretched went thin. He tossed its remains into the kindling fire of his heart and chose to wipe away any noticeable pretense on his face that would give him away. He couldn’t bring himself to deny Steve the happiness he deserved! Not after so long….

       That turned out to be a big mistake, consequentially.

       And so, there was a new situation to work out, another case to solve. Whose faith stayed stronger between the three men: Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark, or Steve Rogers?

       Nobody could tell you anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... What did you think?


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